The Best Medicine
by Tabby J Skylark
Summary: Arkham story with many characters. Very old, needs serious revision. Main character will probably shock you.
1. Counting Sheep

THE BEST MEDICINE   
Chapter One: Counting Sheep  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: The people and places in this fiction belong to Bob Kane, DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The sources are Batman I, Batman: The Animated Series, The New Batman Adventures series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm.   
  
A/N: This story ignores the comic "Batman and Robin Adventures - Annual Issue #1." This story will have lots of characters, so there should be something for everyone. It'll be interesting to see how quickly you figure the concept out. (I'm using the character looks from Batman: The Animated Series, expect Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, because I prefer them in The New Batman Adventures.)   
  
***  
  
Giggling softly in his sleep, he dreamed. Tossing and turning, the giggling grew gradually louder…  
  
A large pasture of adorable little lambs lay before him. Black, white and gray, they warmed his heart. As a toddler he had apparently loved lambs. His nursery had been trimmed with little sheep hopping fences upon green grass. A stuffed sheep called Baabaa had seen the tot through scarlet fever only to be burned and lost forever for its loyalty. Bedtime after bedtime he had squealed with the joys of learning speech, sucking his fist, clapping as picture books filled with darling sheep were pointed out by his mother. True, he had loved sheep because she had put them there - his sisters had loved kittens and ponies for the same reason - but he had loved them all the same.   
  
However, his memories went back to about four or five, earlier years lost in the sleep that surrounds life. Therefore, the nursery of lambs was forgotten. In later life he had visited a sheep farm in shades and trench coat as a councilor, annoyed and somewhat disgusted. They looked and sounded nothing like the sheep of imagination. No, they were ugly, smelly and made frightening, near aggressive noises. They weren't round and cute, nor did they baa pleasantly. However, the small experience had come and gone and was forgotten. Lost with the nursery. Sheep meant nothing to him. He scarcely remembered they were in the world, yet, here they were in his dreams. For, though the councilman had forgotten them on the surface, the nursery and toddler time lined with lambs was subconsciously within him, buried deeply in his character - only visible when slumber came calling.   
  
Watching over dozens of adorable lambs, the very sort that had trimmed his first room, he actually smiled. The Councilman rarely smiled, but the sight of the tiny lambs unleashed warmth and joy not experienced since his baby squeals. They were so adorable and innocent. Just like human babies. Their world was nothing more than baby giggles. It was beautiful.  
  
Sitting on a large rock he realized he was in his best suit, but holding a shepherd's crook. Understanding his responsibility, he enjoyed the warm sun and watched the little ones play. He wanted to touch them, scoop them up in his arms, but knew he couldn't. Their perfection was not to be tampered with. Never. They were so cute they didn't seem real!   
  
Hours seemed to pass, but he didn't mind. He could watch them forever. His smile grew as he watched, humming softly. This place brought out things uncharacteristic of him - smiling, humming, sincere happiness - and he loved it. Little black, white and gray lambs hopping and playing and brightening what was left of his world… wide awake he would find it ludicrous. Fast asleep, however, he'd never been more happy since Baabaa. It felt as though he was smiling on the inside. His heart was singing. He was so filled with bliss he felt he might burst. Eventually, he realized… he was staring at his soul.  
  
Glancing about the field, he was suddenly thunderstruck. He saw it and was absolutely petrified. His heart froze… his inner smile ice… his joy screeching to a startled halt. For there… in the field… stood evil.   
  
An enormous black wolf.  
  
Startled and shaken, he stared at the handsome hunter. It's body was perfectly toned… it's coat glossy, it's expression cold. For a moment, he sat and they shared gaze… silent and beautiful. It was beautiful. Perhaps it would pass… perhaps… everything would be alright… Though it was cold and intimidating, it showed no sign of aggression. It just stood silently meeting his eyes. Dark eyes for dark eyes.   
  
Without warning, it's face changed. It's muzzle wrinkled up to fierce eyes, it's white fangs revealed. Without warning, it sprang upon the lambs. Killing them.  
  
The pain struck the councilor hard. The pain of a soul being torn to shreds… Stumbling, he started to run for help. "WOLF! WOLF!" he shrieked while he still could, crossing the pasture and reaching a small house. "WOLF!" he found a man cleaning his gun. "Please… help me… a wolf…"  
  
Glancing up from his weapon, the huntsman was shockingly familiar. He smiled, almost chuckling, "Very funny, Arthur. The joke's growing old though…"  
  
It was Beaumont.   
  
His eyes widened in terror, stumbling… the pain was overwhelming… the agony racked through him… so unbearable he withered to his knees. "Sir… please… help me…"   
  
"Relax, Arthur… you're angel of death awaits…"  
  
A second figure approached. "A wolf is serious business. These false alarms have to stop. It's garbage, Mr. Reeves!"  
  
It was Commissioner Gordon.  
  
Behind Gordon, townspeople were gathering. Familiar faces. People Arthur knew. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled towards them. Before them. Into them. "Someone! Help me, please! WOLF!"  
  
No one believed. No one would help…   
  
Collapsing to his knees again, he began screaming… yet, no one would listen… he began to bleed heavily from the mouth…   
  
"How's the bat bashing?" Bruce Wayne smiled over him.  
  
Unexpectedly, Batman hit kicked him hard. "Afraid to die, Councilman?" he seethed, kicking him again.   
  
Arthur screeched an almost inhuman screech, that kept his attacker at bay. He screamed again and again, the sound of smashing glass somewhere within him. He screeched until he began to giggle… he tried to scream further, but began to break up into laughter. Screaming laughter. Blood continued to flow him his mouth, more than ever… everywhere… blood… pouring out… absolutely everywhere… Shrieking through laughter he managed, "SOMEONE, ANYONE, HELP ME! HELP ME!! PLEASE GOD - I'M DYING!! I'M DYING!!!"   
  
***  
  
Arthur Reeves slammed awake, screech-laughing hysterically. Tears streamed his cheeks, his hair unkempt, as he slammed about his bed, out of control. Two doctors were trying to restrain him…  
  
"Councilman, please!" one was trying to ready a needle. "PLEASE!"  
  
After several days, Arthur was beyond talking - beyond anything. The toxin had taken over. He could do nothing but laugh and sleep now. He couldn't eat or drink, not even through tubes, without choking. The sedatives just weren't strong enough anymore. Now, he was either under all together or shrieking with laughter.   
  
"Councilman!"  
  
He was exhausted and starving, yet the toxin raged on. They'd promised it would run it's course and he'd be fine. They'd promised…  
  
Finally, the injection was successfully given. Most of it, anyway. He slammed a few moments longer, before gradually calming and drifting to sleep… only to dream of wolves again…   
  
Stepping into the hall, the doctor's hit the light and began to confer… the younger sounding uneasy, "I've never seen a case like this. Never. The laughing gas wears off and the Smilex kills within a minute…"  
  
The other sighed heavily, rubbing his face, "I'm know my Joker chem, son… He was given laughing gas… only… it should have run it's course days ago… something went wrong…"  
  
"Biologically?"  
  
"The lab suspects a serious allergic reaction. The toxin just won't let go…"  
  
"Then…" the younger hesitated before concluding. "We can't save him."  
  
The other shook his head. "No, we can't…"  
  
"We were his last chance… we specialize in…"  
  
"We have to send him to Arkham. They have the strongest sedatives in the business. They can buy him time."  
  
Surprised, the young man protested, "Arkham? But he's not a criminal. We-"   
  
"He's not the first special case we've had to send to them. They have the facilities to keep him alive while we bring in specialists. We'll do the work here and keep him breathing there. I'll make some calls. For you, it's just a matter of paperwork."   
  
Sighing, the young man glanced at his patient, "Where do I sign?"  
  
*** 


	2. Strangling Sharks

THE BEST MEDICINE  
Chapter Two: Strangling Sharks   
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: The Batman places, characters and things in this fiction belong to Bob Kane, DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The sources are Batman I, Batman: The Animated Series, The New Batman Adventures series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Everything else is either Historical, Biblical, Mythical or mine. (I'm using the character looks from Batman: The Animated Series, expect Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, because I prefer them in The New Batman Adventures.)   
  
A/N: See why this story ignores the comic "Batman and Robin Adventures - Annual Issue #1" now? I've been meaning to write an Arkham fic for some time now… and it's about time someone stood up for Reeves. He has a good argument and no one voices it. Don't worry - this story has lots of characters, so there should be something for everyone. Bare with this chapter, folks - it's introductory material. Anywho… if you actually like, please review… it encourages me to continue… ^_^  
  
  
***  
  
"Grandma…"   
  
The house was abnormally quiet, the lighting poor. Typically at this time, birds would be singing… sun would be shining in… Something was off. Seriously off…  
  
Toddling along cautiously, the child approached his grandmother's bedroom door, finding it ajar. Frowning with concentration, he studied the scene, knowing something wasn't right. The foreboding feeling was enough to consume all his scattered thoughts.   
  
"Grandma…" he repeated upon noticing her in bed. She was buried beneath a large, rosy comfiture, her matching night cap peeking out.   
  
Approaching with utmost caution, the entire scene seemed unnatural. He'd run in from play, the forest alive - only, the instant his feet crossed the threshold… silence fell. Absolute silence.   
  
Creeping silent step after step, the small boy approached the bed… His black hair unkempt from fun, he stood staring in uneasy silence. Fun had died at the door. He was almost frightened to speak. Finally, working the nerve, he whispered, "Grandma?"  
  
Nothing.   
  
He risked a step closer and froze, watching, waiting. What was wrong with this picture? The lighting, the proportions, the unviable form under the blankets… nothing seemed real. The silence… it all added to an effect of absolute unreality. A dream.  
  
"Grandma…" he swallowed, raising his tiny voice a little.   
  
He waited and waited, his tiny toddler legs growing tired of standing aimlessly… "Grandma?" he rose to full voice.   
  
Taking the final step, he closed his eyes, expecting the very worst. Nothing. Nothing at all. Opening one eye slowly, the adorable child realized the circumstances remained the same. It was like a campy horror flick! The rosy lump, buried deep from sight, wasn't even rising and falling with breath… It lay unnaturally still… unnaturally…  
  
She was dead.  
  
"Grandma!" he panicked, eyes wet. He extended his arm without thinking…  
  
The sheets snapped away and his grandmother rolled to face him.  
  
The wolf.  
  
***  
  
Screaming, Reeves slammed from slumber, smashing his head against the ambulance…  
  
"Councilman…" a paramedic leaned over him, sounding very tired. "Just try to relax… We're almost there."  
  
There?  
  
Panting and blinking, the councilor glanced out the small windows, only to see a massive concrete structure glaring at him through the night. A gothic castle befitting of the lost souls of Gotham. Moonlight cast across his strained, lined face… a single Smilex tear dropping down his quivering cheek…  
  
"Welcome to Arkham…"  
  
***  
  
The girl had screamed so long and hard her voice was breaking. The other patients had long since been removed and she was kicking and screaming on the floor to avoid sedative. She cried into her dark brown hair, convinced she was too hideous to exist.   
  
Invisible, through the glass, her Doctor could watch no more. Turning his back suddenly, his expression hardened. He'd been wrong. "Sorry, Cal." He muttered after a moment. "You were right. She just wasn't ready."   
  
Caledon Smyth sighed, "John, you can't sit her next to the beautiful Pamela Isley and expect her to be alright… her case is complicated…"   
  
Glancing over his shoulder, John saw the former model's bawling drift to shaky sobs and finally dying whimpers… She was ready to stand. Ready to go back to her cell and wait to try again. Helped to her feet, she sniveled, glancing in his direction. She knew he was hiding there. Her glossed eyes seemed to say 'I failed us again.' He snapped his head, breaking eye contact. She was gorgeous, why couldn't she see it?  
  
Cal, observing from a distance, watched the woman escorted from the room like a fragile package. John had begged him for weeks to let her into his group sessions - 'She can handle it. Just give her a chance!' He'd refused repeatedly until John had skimmed over his head. Kenzy had allowed it. Damn him, he was stupid! Monroe sat down with the likes of Isley and shattered - no surprise.  
  
John, watching Smyth's younger reflection in the window, sensed his thoughts. Sometimes he hated his job. Sometimes he hated Cal. He ALWAYS hated being wrong.   
  
"Come on…" Cal lead him out into the hall.   
  
"Where- oh, right." John remembered. Staff meeting. Stepping into the elevator he caught his own reflection on the panel. Pushing their floor he realized how poorly he was aging. His middle aged face was lined from sleep deprivation and stress, his hair pure gray. Caucasian, he was short and solid, with a look that screamed 'coffee'…   
  
The doors zipped open and they stepped out and crossed, entering the immediate door. The last to sit, before them stretched a very long table with nine doctors, two nurses and their superior present. Five on each side and two on each end, the table made up Arkham's senior medical staff. It was time to divvy up the new cases and hash out the old ones. Unfortunately, as always, there boss was an ass about it.  
  
***  
  
The dream. The same dream since birth. Once lovely, now disturbing. Initially, as a girl, she'd dreamed of glittering golden wheat, endless in all directions - stretching to the sunrise. Beautiful. As she aged in reality, the reoccurring dream changed gradually as well. The happiest years of her life, her prime, felt like a warm noon - bright blue sky and sparkling wheat. Years passed and the dream afternoon slipped away… the sun lowering, the sky slowly sliding overcast. It had started with one. Just one. It was gray. The next visit… a few more golden wheat plumes had turned, scattered spontaneously. Eventually half the crop was transformed, mixed in a near perfect pattern of gold and gray. As the sky grayed, every other wheat matched it. Tonight, the horizon was reddening with the first signs of sunset - the majority of the field lost in shade.  
  
***  
  
Slowly, a very tried Pamela drifted back to reality. As the world came into focus, she rubbed her green eyes, staring at the ceiling. She'd been locked away so long she'd grown accustom to waking here, knowing without a thought where she was. However, as she rolled over, wanting more sleep, she found herself trying to remember something. A dream. She could remember waking as a child, feeling warm, as though out in the sun. Now she awoke feeling the chill of evening and it troubled her. However, as she slipped back into sleep, she forgot, never to remember.  
  
***  
  
Running through quickly, Jim Kenzy was a cardboard cutout of television's boss. A heavy set Caucasian, his white, softly stripped shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a large cigar stuck in his mouth. His gray hair, darkly tired eyes and obnoxious tone completed the cliché.  
  
"Martinez-" he snapped in the direction of a pretty Spanish woman. "Scarecrow's back. He's all yours."  
  
"Check." She responded, jotting it down.  
  
"Duval-" this time a mid-thirties British fellow glanced up. "We have twins in. Keep stealing cars in lobster suits."  
  
Biting his lip, the young man scribbled down a few words, unable to stand his employer. He loved everyone else in the world… but not Kenzy. He was SUCH an ass. Thought himself king 'a the crap pile.   
  
"Westridge, I'm switching Harvey Dent to your caseload. He and Duval aren't workin' out."  
  
The older woman nodded, taking no notes. Having seniority, she sat confidently cleaning her spectacles.   
  
"Slick-" he turned to an easy going fellow to his right. "You get some chick who tried to assassinate Mayor Hill with a butter knife…" Unexpectedly, he then turned to the visibly annoyed Duval, snapping,   
"-and don't get pissed at me, buddy, you're Freudian dream crap isn't for everybody."  
  
"Jungian." The Brit corrected, clearly offended.  
  
"Remington-" It was John's turn to react. "You get Temple Fugate. He and Martinez aren't making much progress."  
  
"Right." John sighed, wanting coffee.  
  
"Smyth, you're taking Page Monroe from Remington. THEY aren't making much progress. We all no what a disaster that's been."   
  
Cal risked a glance at John. Though he kept a cool exterior, the older man was obviously burned bad…   
  
Without skipping a beat their boss had long since moved on, "Chesler, you get what's left 'a Matt Hagen. You've worked with him before, you can handle it. The Bat just dragged him in this afternoon. He's a wreck. Have fun."  
  
Chesler, nearly as old and experienced as Westridge, nodded.   
  
"Domingo-" an Asian woman clicked her pen, ready to write. "You get a guy who repeatedly tries to rob banks with a toothbrush…" She finished, closing her agenda. She hated how he always degraded their patients.   
  
"Dubé, you're blessed with Farafax."   
  
"Right." A French accent tried to hide his distaste. Farafax was a problem case that had been passed around the table twice over.  
  
***  
  
"I don't want to watch this crappy rerun AGAIN… we've watched this ten times and we STILL don't get how he knows which twin it is… it's just stupid, people…" Killer Crock was frustrated… however, he had to keep his temper in check. Eying the guards, he knew even raising his voice was a risk.   
  
"Agreed. Watching reruns is wasteful." Temple clipped his sentence.  
  
"Watching television in general is wasteful, Fugate." A belittling tone entered the conversation.   
  
"I'll have you know I'm not the efficiency fanatic I once was, Nygma. Firstly, there are many beneficial programs out there - beneficial to our minds, our moods, our morals… Secondly, I wasn't being efficient, I was being logical. Due to a recent lack of therapeutic growth, I'm cut back to only an hour in here a week. I don't want to waste it watching something I've seen thrice before, thank you very much!"  
  
For an instant, Edward was at a loss for words. Then a comeback came, "Perhaps through a forth watch you'll actually understand this episode and it will become beneficial… Oh please, what am I saying? You people never get any of these solutions. I alone understand this program…"   
  
Fugate snorted, "Even YOU don't get THIS episode, Edward."   
  
"Alright, alright, I admit… I AM puzzled as to why they focus on his shoes…"  
  
"Oh save it!" Crock turned the channel. "We're gonna watch…" he surfed randomly for a moment before landing on - "…Wheel of Fortune."   
  
Fugate crossed his arms. "A definite improvement. I can't understand why a convicted criminal would enjoy detective-"  
  
"It exercises the mind." Nygma defended a little too hard and fast.   
  
Silence settled over the room and their guards relaxed…  
  
***   
  
"…and then there's the little matter of toilet paper…" the head nurse was going through his report - so meticulous it was annoying. Martinez was using a little battery powered fan, Domingo was doodling and John was asleep.   
  
"Oh, shut up! Leave the list with me and I'll handle it outside the meeting. I can't address all this crap on my doctor's time. I mean, sure, SOME of it is important, but the rest can surely be cleared up on another level. Toilet paper? YEESH! See a custodian!"  
  
For a moment Kenzy's doctors were grateful he was such a tyrant, but the feeling vanished instantly when he started into one of his 'motivational speeches'…   
  
"Frankly, ladies and gentlemen - I've had it. There's been a lotta sliding lately. I hate that. We all hate that! Patients aren't making progress. Patients keep re-offending. Can we not cure anyone in this damn town?! Cases like Farafax shouldn't be happening, people. Cases like Scarecrow shouldn't be happening! I'm sick'a passing 'em around the table! I'm sick of the revolving door! In-out, in-out! What the hell is going on around here!? Gotham City is statistically proven to have the world's most dangerous lunatics! You are suppose to be the best in the business… pulled in from all over the globe to combat these crazy criminals. Cure them, dammit, actually cure them! I expect results! I expect success! No more sliding! … Clear?"   
  
Before anyone could respond, he added, "I do have some good news, however - Domingo, here, has a patient up for parole. I want all you fine folks on parole board tomorrow. Got me?"  
  
Flipping through his notes, he added one MORE thing - to everyone's impatience - "Oh… and Smyth… I have another Joker victim for ya. Some big shot politician. I've seen him on TV… absolute ass… if you actually DO save his life, I'd appreciate ya taking him down a notch or two."  
  
Again, before anyone could say anything, he barked - "Dismissed!"  
  
***  
  
A long title of blanks flashed across the screen with only one letter provided thus far,  
  
"I know! I know!" Nygma loved winning.   
  
"You always know. Big deal." Crock snorted, having lost interest.  
  
"Solve! Solve!" Edward was frustrated with the girl onscreen.  
  
"Oh, do shut up…" Temple sighed.   
  
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)…" Nygma answered quickly, strained.   
  
Temple started, "That's ridiculous. It doesn't even make-"  
  
"The Englishman Who Went Came Up The Hill (And Came Down With All The Bananas)!" the young woman solved, excited.  
  
"Well, I'll be damned… even the brackets…" Crock watched the panels flip in awe. "…but… how? There was only one letter… and it was nonsense-"  
  
"Was it?" Ed raised an eyebrow. "It pays to know things, gentlemen."  
  
Clock King snorted, unimpressed, "Show off."   
  
***  
  
Upon exiting their meeting, several senior doctor's slipped into the same elevator. The moment the doors closed, John muttered, "Wasn't that a blast…" It wasn't a question or statement. It wasn't anything. Just hanging sarcasm…   
  
Zyelle Domingo suddenly snapped, "Is it just me… or is the way our boss introduces us to our new patients-"  
  
"Insensitive?"  
  
"Obtuse?"  
  
"Politically incorrect?"  
  
"Unprofessional?"   
  
"All the above and more." She muttered. The elevator opened where no one waited, without a word she closed the doors and they were off again…  
  
"Did you see the way he burned Duval?" Chesler started.  
  
"Duval? What about me?" John fumed. "He actually said 'disaster'… I mean-"  
  
"Well, John, you tend to-"  
  
John exited the elevator without a word, not willing to listen. Cut off, Westridge turned to her coworkers, "And he expects praise?"  
  
"Quite the attitude." Martinez agreed quietly.  
  
"I say we all band against Kenzy." Domingo muttered, half joking, as she fiddled with the buttons again. "As senior staff - and with you behind us, Wendy-"  
  
"I don't think so, hun." Westridge interrupted. "In two years I'll be a Kenzy somewhere… I'm not going to jeopardize that. You can hold your own little rebellion, you'll hear no objection for me - but I can't play. I've got to kiss ass a while yet. Good day." The doors opened and she was gone.   
  
Martinez blinked, "It's always odd to hear respectable, older people swear."  
  
"No, what's odd is picturing Kenzy as a doctor somewhere…" Domingo was blunt.  
  
***  
  
The rain was coming down hard now. Through her tiny window, the blue search light circled… repeatedly falling on her face, casting rain shadows across her perfect visage…  
  
Her dark eyes wet from crying, Page stared into the bright blue. She couldn't classify it. It was a blue unlike any other. Beautiful, yet so repetitive it was maddening. How it drove her mad! Every other moment it flashed in her eyes, brightening her little prison. Night after night, every other instant… there is was… certain as the sun… almost like a pulse, an eccentric heart beat… She wanted to scream… to smash things…   
  
Trembling, she buried her face in her knees. She'd been switched again. Could they keep shuffling her around forever? Could no one help? She hadn't really liked John… and he hadn't really liked her. He'd always been so… frustrated… so impatient… he expected results and fast. He didn't understand. Didn't care. It was all a job to him. She was nothing more than a means to an end. At least he made her feel that way. He had so much ego wrapped up in it all…  
  
Evening had long since fallen and she wasn't looking forward to sleep… for with sleep came nightmares… That sweet Duval man treated nightmares… that was the only comfort she could find the dark - a dark repeatedly shattered by untouchable blue…   
  
***  
  
"I think I'm going to let Tech work with Dub after all…" Sammy fiddled with his food, his auburn eyes optimistic. John wanted to smash him across the face with a tray, but somehow the image of ending up in a straight jacket beside Two Face was unappealing. Instead he bit his lip and took another bite of breakfast. He hated discussing work when he didn't have to. He hated talking to Sammy "Slick" Spinelli when he didn't have to. My, how his thoughts formed in parallel structure. Much like Kenzy's rants. Parallel structure was a powerful thing.  
  
"Speak a' the Devil…" Duval smiled, joining them. "What's up?"  
  
"Dub, hey, how would you feel about working with Tech?"   
  
"Remind me…"  
  
"Mad Hatter."  
  
Reginald Dubbert Duval's eyes widened, nearly spitting out his soda. Recovering, he choked - "You can't be serious. That guy specializes in dreams. He messes with them. Nothing productive would come of it. It might be downright dangerous."  
  
"Yes, but-"  
  
John stood and left abruptly. Exchanging glances, the pair resumed their conversation, use to his moods.   
  
"The answer's no, Slick. I'm sorry."   
  
"Alright, alright. Any suggestions?"   
  
"Capital punishment."  
  
"NOT funny."  
  
"Fine. No, none. I have my own caseload, thanks… Which reminds me, Martinez let me work with Pamela Isley again today."  
  
"She's interesting. Scary, but interesting." Sam smirked.  
  
"Well, she has interesting dreams too. I'm trying to crack one right now… not really getting anywhere with it, though… Like, I know what it MEANS… I just don't know WHY… or something… I don't know… I just sense there's something much deeper going on…"   
  
"Oh, do tell…" Sam pretended Duval was making sense.   
  
Smyth sat down unexpectedly, "Comparing notes, gentlemen? If so, I could use some second opinions myself…" A close knit bunch, the facilities senior staff worked as a team to treat their patients. There was no concern over doctor-patient privacy. Everyone treated everyone on and off paper.   
  
"The great Caledon Smyth needs help? I'll cast it in stone… my descendants must know of this glorious day…" Spinelli muttered into his coffee. Cal had pride issues. Many in their profession did.   
  
The newcomer smiled, taking it all in good natured stride. He glanced over at Duval and suddenly grimaced - "Pepsi at this hour? Good God!"  
  
"Good? God's great!" Duval rose his can, toasting.   
  
"Where's John?" Cal added, turning back to Spinelli.  
  
"Mood." Both doctor's answered in frank unison.   
  
"I see. Returning to my case…" he understood and fittingly changed the subject. "I'm absolutely perplexed, gentlemen… I was tampering with various sedatives all afternoon-"  
  
"All afternoon? Like, staff meeting and onward?" Sammy was surprised. When his comrade nodded, he whistled. "I assume it's your new Smilex."  
  
Duval frowned, "I never got into Joker chem… it's too much…"  
  
"Just keep testing. Something will work…" Slick sighed.  
  
"Are you going to eat that?" Dub asked unexpectedly.   
  
Shoving his eggs aside, Sam added, "Ya know, Cal, sometimes they just don't make it… You can't save them all… That clown's in a league of his own. They've founded an enormous medical institute to combat his poisonings alone…"  
  
"Those are just the specialists they've dragged to Gotham General. His case is different. They think it's an allergic reaction or something. The toxin won't let go."  
  
"Creepy concept. Good title - 'The Toxin Won't Let Go'…" Sam spoke quickly then mystically.   
  
Duval sighed, "The folks at Gotham Gen are great… but, they think they're tops at everything… specialize at this… specialize at that… PLEASE - the live in the same city and they grasp nothing of Joker chem. Batman's pulling this city through."  
  
"Just imagine this town without the Bat…" Sam frowned, feeling a melodramatic spiel coming on. "I'd have died several times over. We see him in action all the time. He keeps the engine running. Our hopes alive. He's our Robin Hood. Our only prayer."   
  
Smyth snorted softly, "And this ass was against him."   
  
Duval smirked, his hair hanging out over forehead, before his icy eyes in one brownish-copper curl, loosely jelled. It was a unique and attractive hairstyle, certainly. The Caucasian Brit was charming, dapper and pleasant to work with. "Well, it is rather sad our city depends on a potential madmen to save us from certain doom."  
  
"You sound just like him." Cal held his revulsion in check.   
  
"Who is-"   
  
"Arthur Reeves."  
  
Dead silence.  
  
"Now, he IS an ass." Sam finally spoke.   
  
***  
  
Clicking the vending machine, Perrault Dubé realized he was out of luck. The blasted thing had eaten his change AGAIN. "Zut!" he snapped under his breath, starting to bang it. Glancing around, he sighed and let it go.   
  
"Thirsty?" Chesler startled him, offering water.  
  
"Merci, Jerome." He took it and sipped gratefully.  
  
"How are things with Farafax… sliding?" the friendly, middle aged man smirked. Though he was older, he still had a full head of black hair, complimenting his dark skin and eyes.   
  
Perry made a sound of distaste - one of his trademarks. "Don't even start. MAN, was he in a bitch…"  
  
"He has a point though… I don't know about you… but every single time one of the comes back, having relapsed… it hurts… it's a personal hurt. Remember when Riddler-"  
  
Dubé froze. After a moment he admitted, "Now that was bad…"  
  
"One after another. Riddler, Poison Ivy, Harley-"  
  
"Don't." Perrault handed him his water and was gone. He was still very sensitive about Harley Quinn…   
  
***  
  
"Sir…" Smyth entered Kenzy's messy office cautiously. He half expected a stapler to fly across the room. Fortunately, his superior was in high spirits…  
  
"Smyth! Sit your ass down, kid - what's up?"  
  
He was thirty two, yet still a kid to likes of Jim Kenzy. It was degrading AND flattering somehow. With brown hair and eyes, Caledon Smyth looked ironically like Titanic's Caledon Hockley. In fact, many movie fanatics had confused him with the actual character and had bashed him with purses, umbrellas, briefcases, etc… One love struck patient was absolutely convinced, constantly gushing over him and referring to him as 'Master Hockley'… Yes, he looked like actor Billy Zane, with that turn of the century Hockley look, sound and charm…  
  
"Well?" Jim crushed his coffee cup and tossed it across the room, missing the litter bin. Why did he insist on placing it across the room? Right before him would make much more-  
  
"WELL?"  
  
"It's Reeves. It's been over 24 hours and I remain unsuccessful."  
  
"Symptoms?"   
  
"The chronic laughter… they figure an allergic reaction is preventing it from running it's course…"   
  
"They?" Jim raised a graying eyebrow.  
  
"Gotham General."  
  
He snorted, "Like they know anything."  
  
"What do I do? I'm losing him-"  
  
"Cry me a river and row away on it, Smyth. I've got paperwork up to the ozone here… see you're peers, keep testing… you're the expert on Joker hocus pocus…"  
  
"He's dying." Cal was hard.  
  
"A lotta people around here are dying, kid. Life's not fair. We do our best. Cross your fingers the specialists across town - or more likely, the Batman - come up with something before he croaks… I mean, just coz he's a suit doesn't mean he's special. In fact, we could use one less shark in his town…"  
  
"You really have a touch, sir. A riveting way with words." Smyth fought the glare forming across his eyes. He rose and briskly left, the door closing hard and loud behind him.  
  
Chomping down on a fresh cigar, Jim muttered, "Idealists."  
  
***   
  
The straps rawed his flesh, burning… a vague memory of childhood rope burn from some long forgotten playground or tree house slipped through his exhausted thoughts… Yes, he'd been a child once… a very long time ago…   
  
A fever breaking again, he began to murmur in his sleep, gradually starting to toss… and turn… his breathing starting to heavy…  
  
The better…  
  
Sweating, reddening… burning… he was burning… His face tightened, biting his lip till it bled… the fever seized hard, strangling him…  
  
…to eat you with… 


	3. Sleeping All Eternity

THE BEST MEDICINE  
Chapter Three: Sleeping All Eternity   
  
***  
  
  
Disclaimer: The Batman places, characters and things in this fiction belong to Bob Kane, DC Comics and Warner Brothers. The sources are Batman I, Batman: The Animated Series, The New Batman Adventures series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Everything else is either Historical, Biblical, Mythical or mine. (I'm using the character looks from Batman: The Animated Series, expect Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, because I prefer them in The New Batman Adventures.) BTW, this story ignores the comic "Batman and Robin Adventures - Annual Issue #1."   
  
A/N: If you want more, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE review… Please?  
  
***  
  
"When you were very small, perhaps someone read to you the insipid - the word 'insipid' meaning 'not worth reading to someone' - of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. A very dull boy, you may remember, cried 'Wolf!' when there was no wolf, and the gullible villagers ran to rescue him only to find the whole thing was a joke. Then he cried 'Wolf!' when it wasn't a joke, and the villagers didn't come running, and the boy was eaten and the story, thank goodness, was over. The story's moral, of course, ought to be 'Never live somewhere where wolves are running around loose,' but whoever read you the story probably told you that the moral was not to lie. This is an absurd moral, for you and I both know that sometimes not only is it good to lie, it is necessary to lie."   
- The Reptile Room, Lemony Snicket   
  
***  
  
Tech tossed and turned as the giggling crept back into the darkness. Tossing and turning… the sound finally built enough to frustrate him up. Slamming his pillow, he snarled something unintelligible and stared straight ahead into the wall, tired and blank… into the night.   
  
Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he sensed something. Yes, The Corner of the Eye World. A place beyond our reality. Where you see or sense something, but when you physically turn your heard… it's gone. It never was. He, however, Jervis Tech, had the ability to occasionally see into this realm… and tonight was no exception…  
  
He could feel someone watching him. Eyes burning into him. Slowly, he turned his head and saw it. A face staring at him through the tiny bars. Someone was watching him again… through the tiny barred window in his door… his padded cell… The eyes just STARED at him… stared…  
  
He didn't care what his doctors said… they were there… they were really there…  
  
***  
  
The giggling broke into laughter off and on… night after night it went in maddening cycles… a pattern almost forming…   
  
Crane was writing on his walls again. Sometimes pictures, sometimes words, sometimes meaningless lines… he was even keeping track of the days - sort of - an entire wall filled with millions of overlapping lines. Millions.   
  
All he had to work with was sharp charcoal… tonight… he was drawing disturbing screaming faces… moaning, crying, screeching faces… Last night he'd drawn dark angels… it may have seemed cliché to outsiders, but inside… it felt right. Subconsciously comforting. If he actually thought about what he was doing, instead of just blankly working away, he would realize so… but it was all subconscious… all inside…  
  
He hated laughter. It was the very opposite of screams. He'd loved laughter once, like most people… but not now… not ever again… No, now he drew pain… PAIN… subconscious and extreme…   
  
***  
  
"If I have to listen to ONE… MORE… SECOND of this…" Temple Fugate pulled his pillow over his head, seething. Second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour… his world was time… Arthur Reeves had been with them nearly two weeks now and he couldn't handle much more. Two weeks… 14 days… 336 hours-   
  
"Somebody drug him NOW!" a voice suddenly screamed down the hall.  
  
Sitting up, Temple rubbed the sleep from his eyes… slowly, quite groggy. He looked up and saw the Joker across the hall… curled up, hands over his ears… very frustrated… He loved laughter more than anyone, but this was too much…   
  
***  
  
Unable to sleep, Edward was working furiously through his puzzle book. Page after page flew by… page after page… he was so fast and focused tonight… in the zone…  
  
Unexpectedly, his pencil snapped. Instantly, without missing a beat, he was gnawing it… attempting to sharpen it without even thinking. Hurting his hand, he froze - realizing how ridiculous it was. It wasn't hard to see why they wouldn't give him pens yet. His expression one of adorable realization, he turned and found Pamela Isley watching him from across the corridor. She was watering her roses and raising a beautiful, arched eyebrow at him…  
  
How embarrassing. He was always embarrassing himself in front of her. She was so gorgeous and he was… he was… Edward. It sucked. He flushed slightly, giving her a sheepish smile, before turning back to his book. Flipping through pointlessly, knowing he couldn't resume, he waited uncomfortably for her eyes to leave.   
  
Reeves was still laughing. He was always laughing. Well, not always… they were constantly testing antitoxins… he was often under… unfortunately, the whisper went he couldn't eat. He was wasting away, not long for this world.   
  
At least things would quiet down… he could get some sleep…  
  
Unexpectedly, Ivy's neighbour, Fugate, started knocking loudly. "Guard!… Guard!" Unfortunately, the young man down the hall couldn't hear him over the screeching laughter. Slamming his glass harder, Temple screamed, "GUARD!"  
  
Annoyed, Edward slammed HIS glass, closer. "YOU THERE! GUARD!"   
  
The young man turned to him, startled. "Ya?"  
  
"Fugate wants you… and can I have another pencil?"  
  
Reeves grew suddenly unbearable and Jack Napier's voice split the night - "BIGGEST MISTAKE I EVER MADE!"  
  
Uneasy and confused, the guard's eyes were everywhere as he stepped back. Perturbed, Edward started to speak again, when Joker interrupted a second time - "JUST SHOOT HIM!"  
  
"Why didn't you!?" Ed bitched back through the wall. "Damn straight this is your fault!"  
  
If only he'd seen Pamela's small smile as she turned back to her flowers…  
  
***  
  
"I've SO had it…" a sour faced nurse rolled a noisy cart down the dim halls. She'd been muttering under her breath for ten minutes already regarding her job, her boss and above all, Councilman Arthur Reeves.   
  
Caledon Smyth rounded the bend, taking her by surprise. Sans smile, the doctor turned and unlocked the door - "Excellent. You read my mind." Allowing her to enter first, he added, "Let's try that new batch from New Zealand."  
  
"I've got Rome…" she was now filling a syringe with pale blue sedative.  
  
"I thought we'd agreed, Kate, it-"  
  
"-keeps him quiet longer, Doctor."  
  
"The fever, damn it. The fever's going to kill him!"  
  
"An unavoidable side effect and a risk I'm willing to take."   
  
"Where-"   
  
"Anyone and everyone is out aiding patients. Their getting rowdier every night! Staying up all hours of the night shouting back and forth. You wouldn't know - but it's a mess out there and it's all this guy's fault. They're very tired, very frustrated… they're downright ANGRY, Doctor. I don't know about you, but I don't like to make men like Jack Napier and Harvey Dent angry. I don't like to make women like Pamela Isley and Harley Quinn angry. You can't disrupt the therapy of all our other patients just for one man, Doctor. The needs of the many versus the needs of the few. We-"  
  
"Alright, alright." Anything to shut her up. "Rome then… but…"  
  
"-Australia tomorrow. Tonight, they need sleep." Anything to shut him up.   
  
"New Zealand." He corrected. "Australia was that shipment Wednesday - you know, the rash…"  
  
"Right, right…" she approached a laughing, crying Arthur. The light hurt… the light creeping in from the corridor… it burned his eyes… They didn't even bother to turn the lights on anymore… the dark… his eyes…   
  
Day and night in darkness… needles… pain… his stomach hurt bad…   
  
Caledon bent over him… saying something soft and soothing… He wasn't listening… he wanted the cloth… the cold cloth… he was feverish… his thoughts couldn't even focus anymore… he just wanted the cloth… he was burning… the light, the heat… burning…   
  
***  
  
"Grandma…"  
  
The house was silent. The lighting unnatural. Confused, the dark haired toddler stumbled along… he just wanted milk pudding… Grandma was the giver of milk pudding…   
  
"Grandma…"  
  
He froze, staring at the open bedroom door. Someone was in the bed… but something was wrong… cautiously… he started forward, stumbling…  
  
Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the front door…  
  
Turning, he toddled toward the sound. The adorable tot staggered into the large wooden door, dazed - an expression of baby blankness. The wide eyes, adorable open mouth… little hand… reaching up…  
  
"Grandma…" he called through, though he expected a man of deep voice. The image of an axe flashed across his mind. A man with an axe come to help him find Grandma. Smiling with tiny baby giggles, he started to open the door - when an unexpected answer came…  
  
"Yes, child, it's Po Po…"   
  
He froze. 'Po Po' meant grandmother. It was her voice. No question… but… why was she outside? More importantly, why would she knock?  
  
"Grandma?"  
  
"Yes, child, it's Po Po…" Repeated, exactly the same. Exactly. Creepy.  
  
He backed away slowly, uneasy. Something was wrong. Very wrong.   
  
"Yes, child, it's Po Po…"  
  
That was all it knew how to say. Whatever IT was…   
  
Frightened, he knew he couldn't stay in… and he couldn't run out… Something lurked in the bedroom, yet something was waiting on the front step as well. Something murderous… something terrifying…   
  
The image of a large, hunched gray wolf with blank… solid black… shiny… EVIL… eyes… flashed before his eyes… It was waiting to KILL him… to actually EAT him… eat him alive…  
  
"Yes, child, it's Po Po…"  
  
***  
  
Screaming, the toddler hid under his comfiture in the nursery of lambs… For ages he'd stared at his lambs in near darkness… stared, watching for any sign of evil… any sign of IT… then, headlights from a passing car has slipped through his window, illuminating the walls with shadows - leaves, branches, etc. Shadows… The faces of the little lambs had turned momentary evil… frightening… dark…  
  
Screeching in the warm carbon dioxide, the baby was too terrified to even beg for mommy… it just shrieked and shrieked…  
  
The lights were suddenly on. Mommy was there. She peeled away the covers and took him in her arms, whispering soothingly. He wasn't listening. All he wanted was the cloth. The cold cloth. He had the fever again… it was back, she was telling someone… someone… a silhouette in the door… a shadow saying to burn it all…  
  
Crying hysterically, he wouldn't listen - the cloth, the cloth…   
  
No, he didn't want milk. No, he didn't want juice… he didn't want his teething ring… NO, NO, NO… Baabaa… yes, Baabaa would do… He forgot all about the cloth and settled deep down into his covers again, sleepy…  
  
Lon Po Po wasn't real. It wasn't real. She promised.   
  
***  
  
Waking, the image of a red and black book - glowing eyes - crossed his tired mind. He would start giggling soon… very soon…   
  
For now, though, he lay in the cool pitch, blinking… sleepy… He was so hungry… so very, very hungry… He could only eat when he was conscious and therefore, laughing - he choked. He choked every single time. He couldn't keep a thing down.  
  
No matter what Smyth whispered… he knew he was dying… and it hurt bad…  
  
They left him alone in the dark, day and night to die…   
  
Soon they would return with the needles to make him sleep… sleep… They always made him sleep. Always. Why would he want to sleep? He had all eternity to sleep… 


	4. Losing Hope

THE BEST MEDICINE  
Chapter Four: Losing Hope  
  
***  
  
DISCLAIMER: Everything here is either BTAS, BMOTP or folklore. It's not mine - let's all thank Bob Kane, Warner Brothers and the German peasants of the 18th century. ^_^  
  
A/N:  
  
I hope people actually read author's notes around here. With my other stories I'm not so sure… lol… I mean, sometimes people comment about stuff that was addressed in my comments. ^_^ (Actually, I'll shut up now - I'm just grateful for reviews! THANKS EVERYONE!) I also address what people have said in their reviews.  
  
Ya, I had these two chapters written days ago, but unfortunately… we watched BMOTP around that time… and well… I realized Arthur wasn't quite as hard as I was portraying him. As my sister put it, "He smiles a lot more than you think he does!" So… ya… he's a tough guy to write suddenly. POINT - Had to rewrite these chapters somewhat. BTW, I so don't picture anyone the way their drawn, especially when I write. It's usually live action in my head… weird… ANYWAY, most are more attractive or something… Well, whatever…  
  
CLEARING THIS UP RIGHT NOW - Eddie is suit and tie Eddie. K?   
  
Anyway, hopefully you're reading my comments… and hopefully you're getting all the symbolism… and hopefully these chapters turned out. I'm iffy on them both, unfortunately. (Lost confidence in my characterization.) Hope. Ha, pun not intended. Honestly. Anyway, the symbolism is kinda deep with me most times, people. These dreams aren't pointless. (Some stuff will be understood later though, I suppose.) Anywho, hope this chapter works. I dunno… let me know. Please help me out by reviewing! Thanks! ^_^   
  
***  
  
"There is another story concerning wolves that somebody has probably read to you, which is just as absurd. I am talking about Little Red Riding Hood, an extremely unpleasant little girl who, like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, insisted on intruding on the territory of dangerous animals. You will recall that the wolf, after being treated very rudely by Little Red Riding Hood, ate the little girl's grandmother and put on her clothing as a disguise. It is this aspect of the story that is the most ridiculous, because one would think that even a girl as dim-witted as Little Red Riding Hood could tell in an instant the difference between her grandmother and a wolf dressed in a nightgown…"  
- The Reptile Room, Lemony Snicket   
  
***  
  
It was changing its clothes. Changing its very skin.   
  
A small, dark haired toddler watched through the crack of a door.  
  
There it stood, sheep skin around its ankles.   
  
Its dark eyes turned his direction. Startled and frightened he'd be discovered, the child recoiled. It stood, staring at him, expressionless.  
  
Only he knew.  
  
A wolf in sheep's clothing…  
  
~?~?~  
  
"Arthur, be a dear and get my shoes…" Monica cooed.   
  
A dark haired teen didn't hesitate. He was instantly gone, getting the heels she'd left in her dressing room. She was about to go on stage, a beautiful singer… She was everything to him.  
  
Meanwhile, back at the curtain, the blond was having her final touches. Surrounded by friends, she was boasting about all the weight she was losing and all the boys she'd met over the long weekend. She sounded kind of… well… she was gorgeous though. Remarkable voice. Her updo was just awesome! Her eyes striking… her smile… her dress… WOW!  
  
"So… what's with you and Arthur? He's been hanging around a lot."  
  
"Reeves?" she was surprised. "Me and Reeves? You can't be serious."   
  
"Then…" another friend trailed off.   
  
"He's the only reason I'm passing Law." Monica was blunt.  
  
Some giggled, some were surprised…  
  
"So, you're just using him?"  
  
"What did you THINK was going on? Good God, people - I don't think I could be the square's friend, let alone… EW, EW… Miranda, REALLY, I mean, just LOOK at him…"  
  
Shoes hit the floor.  
  
She turned. There was Arthur. HURT. Very hurt. He'd heard everything.  
  
"Arthur…" she started, not sure what to say.  
  
He turned, leaving quickly. He didn't have glasses yet. He dressed like everyone else… his hair was a jelled mess like the rest… He just couldn't understand it. It hurt so bad!  
  
"Arthur! Wait!" she started after him. He didn't, though. No way.  
  
Her director barred the way. "You're on in five…"  
  
"Five's all I need!" she insisted. "The midterm's tomorrow!"  
  
~?~?~  
  
Pachebel Canon. It was complicated and beautiful. Extremely beautiful. It had to be strings though - only strings did the piece justice. They kept trading the many parts about in various, complicated combinations. It was BEAUTIFUL. It kept building and building… just BEAUTIFUL…  
  
They'd started playing it in the darkness for him… soothing beauty…   
  
Now that he was out of the darkness, he still played it. It still soothed. It was almost therapeutic. It made him feel better somehow, though he was still too miserable too speak. Therapeutic…  
  
Therapy. Damn.   
  
Guards would be there momentarily. They were referred to as escorts, as he wasn't actually a prisoner, but they were guards all the same and treated him as though he may escape. Hell, he wanted to escape.   
  
He hadn't spoken the first few days after the darkness had gone. He rarely spoke now. They'd managed to stabilize him enough to leave the little room. Something from Costa Rica had done the trick. For now. Nothing was certain. Who knew what tomorrow would bring… They had to inject him every few hours… They still needed something more permanent. They were still experimenting.   
  
Now he sat in one of Arkham's few hospital-like rooms, in hospital clothes, legs crossed on the bed, his mind blank. Almost - he kept remembering things. Frivolous things. It was all the therapy. GOD, he hated the pointless therapy. He sat listening to the beautiful, complicated strings… hating the therapy…  
  
Sure, it wasn't as bad as the needles… but… GOD… it was so stupid…   
  
As the Amanda Marshal song put it: Everybody's got a story that'll break your heart. Everyone could whine to a shrink about their troubles, their past… everybody! The cab driver, the bartender, the university professor, the life guard… the big city councilman…   
  
His mind rambled like this when it wasn't blank. His expression was so distant, so unhappy… He had to get back to work…   
  
After therapy there would be more needles… eventually his dosage - the fix that kept him from losing his mind to the laughter, the fever…   
  
He had to get out. Simple as that. He had to get out.   
  
~?~?~  
  
Swinging… he was swinging… soaring… laughing…  
  
Edward loved the swings. He pumped, higher and higher. Unlike Katie, he wanted to fly. She sat, lazily drifting beside, lost in thought. She was a little older, his sister… sweet and sorta pretty… for a sister…   
  
He was four and he could fly…   
  
Heaven, how he loved the swing… how he loved to fly…  
  
Now!   
  
Springing out, he soared… soared through the air… so slowly… time seemed to stand still… he was flying… he was about to land… he-  
  
~?~?~  
  
-missed that old swing so much.   
  
Edward Nygma, a few decades older now, was watching a deserted park through dark bars. He stared at the empty swings every time he waited for therapy. He sat in Smyth's office, staring out the window at the drifting swings.   
  
How he missed flying… and Katie… and swings… crisp Autumn Saturdays…  
  
He watched the empty swings drift, lonely and aimless… like him…   
  
He would give anything to see children play on them, laughing, carefree… young and convinced they'd stay so forever… aware of nothing else… able to fly… He'd do anything to see children fly again…   
  
He glanced to the nurse waiting with him. She was folding sheets on her cart, guards outside the door. He turned back to the window, thinking.   
  
Finally, "Nurse, why are there never any children at the park?"  
  
She glanced up, surprised, then confused. "I'm sorry?"  
  
He motioned out the window. "The park. Where are the children?"  
  
How could she tell him?  
  
It was a parking lot.   
  
~?~?~  
  
He had to be quiet. SO quiet. It was raining. Again.   
  
Staring blankly out the window, the brown-red haired boy's mother was in the next room straightening up. Again. Like always. She was sweeping up the shattered glass, up righting the furniture, silently crying, he imagined. He was practically immune.   
  
He just had to be SO QUIET. Not a sound.   
  
Daddy was sleeping. Daddy had a headache. He'd come home angry with the headache again… he always got the headache when he didn't take his medicine… When Daddy didn't get his pills… mum cried…   
  
Lightening flashed and he saw Costello Honorez staring back at him from the neighboring window, across the fence. Rain trickled both windows, but his little best friend was sitting there too, sympathizing as always. He doubted Costello really understood. Frankly, he didn't - he was only three. They were only three.   
  
Costello, a dark Mexican tot, was adorable and friendly. A good friend. Whenever Daddy had the headache, he'd run over to the Honorez place. He'd forgot all about it there. He'd play with Costello. Costello's daddy never got the headache. No, he didn't think Costello had a daddy. His mum was nice though. Real nice. Always brought cookies, treats.   
  
He was trying to think now. Trying… but his mind was too lazy. Things tended to haze. There were always things he was too little to understand. Most things were like that, in fact. His mind didn't process some stuff… just skipped over and carried on…   
  
He watched Costello through the rain. He motioned his little hand in a timid wave. His best friend, his ONLY friend, mimicked the gesture.   
  
Suddenly, lightening crashed again, unexpected. He cried out, alarmed.  
  
He realized his mistake, but it was too late. Just too late.  
  
"EDWARD!"   
  
~?~?~  
  
"Edward?" Dr. Smyth. It was-  
  
Blinking, Nygma realized where he was. Reality. What had he been saying? Oh yes. Honorez. His childhood friend. Right.   
  
He truly wanted to get better and Smyth knew just what to say, what to ask, to make him talk. He always left the sessions feeling better when he played ball. When he talked. He doubted they'd ever let him out again after his last backslide… but hell, he had to TRY to pull things together. He wouldn't spend his life screaming in a padded cell. He had to work his way up in the institution. Had to get status. A better life… even if it was within these walls forever. He had to win back his mind! Unlike most super villains, he sincerely wanted to get better.   
  
~?~?~  
  
Reeves was staring out over the parking lot, uncomfortable. Doctor Caledon Smyth, a serious fellow who reminded him of Billy Zane's Cal Hockley, was sitting behind his desk, silent. Waiting for him to say something. Anything. GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN - he hated this.   
  
"Arthur…" Cal started carefully. "Your leave of absence won't last forever. We have to get you back on your feet-"  
  
"Then why are we wasting time here?" Arthur was blunt, eyes still through the bars. "We should be testing."  
  
"Firstly, your system needs rest. We can't just keep pumping you full of mystery chemicals. There's enough risk in all this - no need to overdo it. Besides, we need time between tests to gauge results. Secondly, physical healing isn't all you need after this affair, believe me. You've been through a serious trauma, Councilor-"  
  
"Must we use such melodramatic terms?" Always blunt, indifferent, cold.  
  
"Councilman…"  
  
"Exactly. Councilman. I've got to get back to work."   
  
"Then play ball." His phrase. Always his phrase.   
  
"Have they replaced me already? I can just see Ripenburg slipping into my spot without a second thought. Runner up, my ass - he bought this town!"  
  
Inside Caledon Smyth was pleased. Progress. He was venting somewhat.  
  
"Isn't that a major part of politics?" Make conversation.  
  
Arthur didn't answer. Damn. Most patients loved to talk. Most criminals wanted attention. Loved it. This guy was the very opposite. If anyone saw him here he'd just DIE. If anyone knew he was here… Wow, there was so much ego wrapped up in there. So cold. So- UGH. The guy just did NOT do personal. He couldn't get personal. It was almost scary. Fortunately, in his line of work he'd seen all types. This sort just took time.   
  
Unfortunately, Reeves didn't have time. There certainly was talk of replacing him. His job hung in the balance. Even if he spilled his life story it would do little good until they discovered a more permanent cure to his ailment, for in truth, that was the more important part - all that kept him here.   
  
He could ask about this Ripenburg character, but that would be stupid. Reeves was smarter than his average patient… by how much he didn't know… but by some. Hm… he'd have to tread carefully. When in doubt, talk about yourself. Get the ball bouncing or however the old saying-  
  
Showing the pictures on his desk, he smiled, "This is my niece, Hope." He doubted Reeves would even look. Surprisingly, he did. He was cold, but polite it seemed.  
  
"She's cute." He didn't smile. Hope certainly was cute, though. No lie.  
  
Asking Reeves about his family was also stupid. No, he had to keep treading. Treading. Goodness, few patients made him feel awkward or uncomfortable… but this man secretly did. He was so… unfeeling… Speaking personally with him was unnatural. Still, he trudged onward, hoping to succeed eventually…  
  
"Ya, I don't see her much these days. My brother Rich and the family moved to Canada. Near Winnipeg, actually. Nice little town…" He trailed off, then came back with an honest realization. "You know something, I've never been to Canada."   
  
"You're not missing much." Reeves really was an ass.  
  
"I dunno. Rich speaks very highly of it. He moved there last year and has never looked back. I mean, it's quiet… less crime…"  
  
Reeves snorted eloquently, "Please. We live in Gotham. ANYWHERE would be an improvement there - and I do mean anywhere." He spoke so simply. So caustically.   
  
"There's a lot of hate in you." Caledon observed simply.  
  
Arthur said nothing - though the comment was most unexpected.  
  
"Councilman, please… if you ever want to get out of here, you have to cooperate. You have to try."  
  
"Doc, must I be MORE candid? I'm not comfortable speaking personally with you-"  
  
"-with ANYONE, Councilor." Cal came in perfectly.  
  
Something ever so slightly slipped through. His armor wasn't as tough as he pretended. That had touched on something, perhaps only slightly, but STILL… it was a reaction…   
  
Arthur, prior to this recent episode in his life, had been a decent enough character in his way. He'd smiled, spoken personally occasionally at parties. Yes, parties - he'd been social. Sort of. Regardless, post his evening confrontation with Jack Napier, things had changed. His world was on the line. Therefore, he was a bit of a bitch, to be blunt.   
  
Suddenly, "Doc, everybody's got a sob story. Everybody. I'm not going to sit here and whine to you about my childhood. If you must know, I had an awesome childhood. I've had an awesome life. I don't need to talk to you about it. I don't need to talk to ANYONE about it!"  
  
He was getting angry. Excellent.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with me! I don't need therapy! Furthermore, I think these sessions are more hinder than help, for incase you haven't noticed - I'm practically SHOUTING!"  
  
Caledon's expression remained noncommittal.   
  
"Hello?" Reeves snapped, though he was simmering down.   
  
"It felt good to get all that pent up frustration towards me out."   
  
"What?"  
  
"Arthur, I'll be candid now - unless you cooperate, Ripenburg really will take your job and you'll be locked up here forever."  
  
Just the way Cal said it… it sounded like a test, a deliberate trigger. He said nothing. Their gazes silently locked. He could and would be stubborn. They could and would let him go home.  
  
This lasted several moments, until a nurse - "Doctor Smyth, Pamela Isley's turn…"  
  
"How nice." Arthur was expressionlessly cutting, caustic. "If I had been making a serious breakthrough we would have been cut off. What an efficient practice you run, Doctor."   
  
Cal smiled, "See you this afternoon, Arthur."  
  
"Why bother?" Reeve's wheelchair was rolled away. He was still thin, especially in his face - his cheeks slightly hollowed in. He would need the chair for a little while yet. A long while, perhaps…  
  
~?~?~  
  
There she was. Beautiful, little Hope. She was curled up in her blankets, fast asleep… a precious smile upon her small face. She was perfect, like a painting. It was all like a painting. She slept on her side… her face precious, heartwarming… facing off the bed…  
  
A strange, heavy breathing came from beside, behind her back…   
  
She slept on… so warm… so wonderful was sleep…   
  
The breathing continued… heavy, frightening…   
  
He knew what was coming. There was no doubt about these things anymore.   
  
The breathing… the brea-  
  
Her eyes opened suddenly, silently startled.   
  
Sitting up slowly, the beautiful child turned to find a wolf in grandma's cap and nightgown curled up under the blankets beside her. It breathed so heavily, eyeing her like a lamb…   
  
She wasn't afraid. She wasn't at all afraid.  
  
Expressionless, she just sat there, holding her blankets.   
  
RUN… FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RUN!   
  
Without a word, she rolled back over and went to sleep, pulling the blankets up to her throat, snuggling deep.   
  
The wolf remained, still breathing heavily… wolfishly…   
  
It was dark, practically black… It's eyes hungry…   
  
Why didn't she run? Why didn't she run?!  
  
~?~?~ 


	5. Blowing Down Cuddles

THE BEST MEDICINE  
Chapter Five: Blowing Down Cuddles   
  
***  
  
DICLAIMER:   
  
Thank Bob Kane and Warner Brothers. Not me. ^_^  
  
A/N:   
  
Sorry if there's errors. (AH, there's always errors.) So, do you like this story? Did it take a turn for the worst the last two chapters? Please let me know!   
  
BTW, did you get that last chapter title? I know, I know, it was a rather misleading - practically LYING - chapter title. Sorry. Good symbolism though, if I say so myself… and not really lying… I mean, stuff is still on the line for the guy, right?   
  
ANYWAY, if you want more - review please and thank you! ^_^  
  
***  
  
He loved Cuddles. Cuddles! An adorable West Highland Terrier, small and white. He had eyes and a nose - little and black. His eyes peaked through the hair, sparkling black. How cute! He was the perfect dog! Even as an adult he'd never found another as perfect. Just perfect. He was very small - a lap dog, shaggy white. Neatly shagged. His face was so adorable, so… His hair cut was slightly different from most of the breed, his head shape too. He was more round than boxy.   
  
Holding the little dog with the little bark, the tot was carefree. They were out on the deep green lawn, just standing. The day was just right - temperature warmer than cold, the sun not too strong, not too bright. His father would be home from work soon. For his age, he had an excellent sense of time, though he thought it would all last forever. At four he had no grasp of aging.  
  
Standing with bouncy little Cuddles, he was oblivious to the fact that in a few weeks time he would love the dog more than anything else in the world. In a few weeks time… Cuddles would be all he had in the world.   
  
***  
  
"Thank God THAT nightmare's behind me." Arthur's cell phone rested between his cheek and shoulder as he adjusted his suit before the mirror. She talked for a while and he inserted the appropriate sounds in the appropriate places to imply he was listening, when truly, he was trying to pick a tie. Psh, stupid. Black, of course. He always went with black over some other expressionless, impersonal shade of gray. Black suit, black tie. Always.  
  
"Ya, I'm just so glad-"  
  
Someone knocked.  
  
"Would you hold on, someone's at the door…"   
  
Walking out to the front hall of his apartment, Reeves glanced through the peep hole. No one was visible, yet someone knocked again. Someone was there, alright.   
  
Confused, "Sandy, I'd better let you go… Alright, Bye."  
  
His hand went for the knob… and then an image flashed startlingly before his eyes. A small child, hesitating to open a cottage door. Something terrible lurked on the other side of his door. Something absolutely terrible…  
  
Don't be stupid.  
  
Still…  
  
"Who is it?"   
  
No answer… then more knocking…  
  
"Who is it?" he repeated, irritated, louder.   
  
More of the same… the knocking… it was maddening, yet frightening…   
  
"Who-"  
  
The knocking shook the door, violent. Scary.  
  
Backing away, he was frightened. Something terrible-  
  
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!!   
  
It was getting really, really bad. He couldn't answer. He couldn't- He surprised himself by backing suddenly into the wall. Against the wall, he watched the door convulse… the knocking-  
  
Silence. Absolute silence.   
  
He waited…  
  
Nothing. It was gone.  
  
Still, he was frozen. Against the wall… he watched the door…   
  
Then the voice came… an indescribable voice… dangerous…   
  
"Little pig, little pig… let me come in…"  
  
***  
  
Reeves woke with such a start, nearly falling from his bed. The room spun wildly, his heart racing… Make it stop, make it stop… Closing his eyes tightly, he felt very ill… very warm… His heart pounding in his chest painfully… The dreams were getting really bad now. Really bad. He never remembered much… just… the feelings mostly… Terror. Always terror.  
  
Eyes closed tight, his head swam. His head hurt. Overwhelmed.  
  
As his senses settled, he remembered where he was. The hospital smell had been the first clue… The misery, the dread settled in as well… He hated Arkham…   
  
***  
  
The sun was setting… It was sunset…  
  
All Pamela's wheat was nearly gray now. It had turned sleep by sleep… more gray… It was certainly something to worry about. The sky was darkening with a hue of pink, the field darkening with a dying hue of gold. What was left of the golden wheat.   
  
Harvest time. The sun was setting… the crop almost entirely gray now…  
  
***  
  
Dragging his suitcase… he remembered…  
  
Clothes and Cuddles. That was all he'd been able to take.  
  
The Westie moved quickly, but made little progress. It was the short legs… they worked very hard, yet covered little distance. He scurried along behind… no leash. Things were going to be very different now. Very different. They didn't pay any attention to him. His parents had always had rules. Many, many rules. These people had none. No leash. The dog had no leash! Things were certainly going to be different now.  
  
Misery and dread washed over him yet again… things were going to be-  
  
***  
  
Doctor Remington was SO annoyed.   
  
"Come now, John, come inside… make yourself at home…" his patient called cheerfully, though something menacing lay hidden beneath. He seemed silly, seemed clownish… but, LORD was he dangerous…   
  
Remington ignored the comment, sitting down, flipping through his papers. Napier knew glass had to stay between them. He was just too damn dangerous.   
  
After a long pause, Jack spoke, "So, Johnny… what's it today?"  
  
John glanced up from his notes. Joker had a new traumatic childhood every session. A new story that contradicted all others. Doctors were still trying to piece things together. Did he do this to avoid talking about it? Getting serious? … Or was he just being silly? Or crazy?   
  
"Jack…" he began carefully.  
  
"You know… they don't let woman work with me anymore."  
  
"I know, Jack."  
  
"It always ends one of two ways…"  
  
"I know, Jack."  
  
"I win them over… or… they can't take anymore. Too disturbed."  
  
"Yes, Jack."  
  
"You know, John…" Joker sounded annoyed suddenly. "With that closed off attitude, I doubt we'll make any progress. I just hate it when people aren't receptive. Especially my shrinks! It's rude, obnoxious, annoying-"  
  
"Sorry, Jack."  
  
Growling, dangerous, "I hate that name… I hate your tone…"  
  
SLAM!  
  
Joker slammed the glass, unexpectedly. John was very startled.  
  
"Scared ya!" he laughed. He laughed and laughed… he could always scare them. Always. They were so damn scared.   
  
Joker had had the best childhood of them all.   
  
***  
  
"I think I've cracked it…" Duval smiled proudly, shuffling through his Biblical notes. It had taken a while, but he had the answer.   
  
Sam glanced up, barely listening, "Ya?"  
  
"Isley. The dream. She's dreaming a parable straight out of the New Testament. Weeds among the wheat! There's a weed that looks exactly like wheat. Dracus or something. I don't remember. I think it's Greek… Anyway, it looks exactly like wheat UNTIL… harvest time comes around. That time of year it turns gray. (Poor farmers never know how much grain they have or how much wheat until harvest.) Anyway, I won't bore you with the details."   
  
"But…" Sam trailed off. "How's this information relevant to the Old Testament?"   
  
"New Testament."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"Jesus constantly told parables through the Gospels… you know, stories to illustrate a point. They were quite brilliant, honestly, despite one's religious beliefs…" He trailed off, thinking, before distantly resuming with, "…yes, whatever one believes, there's no denying Jesus of Nazareth was brilliant and had the right idea about things…"  
  
Sam gave him a prompting look.   
  
"What? Slick, it pays to have a working knowledge of the scriptures. Christian or not, it's valuable. It's worth something. I can't find a single thing in what Jesus said to be false. Frankly, if everyone acted like Jesus… the world would be a perfect place. I mean, admit it - true or not, Christianity is a good idea… I mean, 'Be a good person' - you can't go wrong! The religion has just been corrupted by man in some cases… alright, many cases, I suppose. ANYWAY, if everyone just acted like Jesus and nothing more or less, specially nothing MORE-"  
  
"-now there would be a denomination, yes, yes… I've heard this before, Dub. You should start your own branch - the Church of 'What Would Jesus Do?'…"  
  
"Fine… laugh… poke fun…"   
  
"If you insist…"   
  
"ANYWAY, parable…"  
  
"Oh ya."  
  
"A farmer-" and they launched into another half an hour of theological discussion, before Kenzy decided their 'extended' lunch was over.   
  
***   
  
Cuddles. All he had to remind him off the good life. The life before. He loved Cuddles more than anything in the world. Cuddles was all he had now. The only one who loved him. These people didn't love him. They hated him. They ignored him. He didn't exist. Cuddles didn't exist. The dog hadn't been bathed since they'd come. He needed a hair cut. He needed many things. Food especially. They never fed him, washed him, brushed him, walked him… Nothing!   
  
The boy tried, but nothing was provided. They forgot to feed HIM most days. No exaggeration. He'd sit at the old table and wait… and wait… and no one would come home. They didn't want him. They didn't see him. Hear him. He was starving for attention, starving for love, starving for FOOD… for the bare necessities… They were blind and deaf to his existence it seemed! He'd given up speaking now. No need. No one to talk to. At all. They had to be blind and deaf to him. Had to be.  
  
He was only four and he was disturbed to muteness. Dirty himself, the child held Cuddles. Cuddles wasn't allowed in the house. Only rule. Yet, there was no chain. No rope. No leash. This was very bad. Their only rule was one of extreme misery. He needed Cuddles. That's why he stayed outside rain, shine or snow. Blizzard, storm… whatever… He needed Cuddles.   
  
He was frightened of them. Frightened of this new life. They hated him. They ignored him. The man drank too much. His daddy had never drank in his life. Never. Said it was bad. No alcohol in the house - it was a rule. Dogs were kept on leashes - it was a rule. No hitting - it was a rule. Parents were not to hit their children. Not to smash them through things until they bleed so bad they went to the hospital. And stayed. For days and days. Parents weren't to throw their children down stairs or out moving vehicles… or… or… through windows… windows hurt lots… coz it was a far fall… a long drop…  
  
There were rules against lying too. Lying to people was wrong. Yet, he lied. The man always lied. That is when he spoke of it at all. He only spoke of it when he had to. When someone asked. If it wasn't for these occasions, he'd never be spoken of at all. In fact, the lies were the only confirmation the man knew his name.  
  
Even to that very moment… he still struggled with the concept of adults hurting children… It had come as such a shock. It was still a shock after all he'd been through. He honestly had never even considered the existence of such things… such happenings… At four, it had never crossed his mind, never entered the picture… it hadn't existed. He'd never feared adults before… but a fear was certainly forming now…   
  
The man. He drank too much. Everyone in town knew. He was filthy. The house was filthy. Run down. His old home had been glorious. His parents had been one of the prominent, wealthy families in the community. He'd started his education early. The house had been suburban, very handsome. Brick. His father had worn a suit and tie, his hair very neat. His mother had been wonderful. She was pretty and kind. Very active in the community. Both his parents had been kind, wonderful, respected people. Warm, loving, generous. He'd been their world too. They'd fawned over his constantly, paying him more attention than he knew what to do with…  
  
He cried now whenever he remembered struggling away from his fawning mother to play. To be independent. Honestly, it had annoyed him sometimes. The fawning. Now a great sadness fell over his little heart whenever he thought of his mother trying to smother him with love. He would never experience such things again. Ever. At all. At four years old - at FOUR - he looked around the wretched, dead shack and knew it.   
  
These people… they forgot him all the time… they didn't know he was ALIVE. They never looked at him. Never touched him in anyway other than unnecessary violence. Well, at four, he didn't find it necessary. Frankly, if it wasn't for the woman he'd have died a very long time ago… he'd have died the first day. The woman kept him alive, at least that's how his little mind understood it, and his adult mind knew he hadn't been far from the truth. Though… she went to the hospital lots too… She ignored him though. She was blind and deaf to him too. He and Cuddles. She was a lot like the man, only… different…  
  
They lived in an old shack outside 'a town. It was suppose to be a farm. Somehow. Right now, he saw chipped paint, rust… it was literally a shack, almost a shanty! The old barn out back was even worse… there were so… many… RATS! Filthy, dirty… the place was so run down…   
  
None of these external conditions would have really bothered him (for he was still young and being socially shaped)… had they been kind… or at least KINDER… It would have been very different from his wealthy suburban ways, yes, but he was very young and impressionable. He would have adapted quickly. He wouldn't have developed the sickening pain in his adult stomach each and every time he saw poverty… chipped paint… drunken, miserable, bleeding POVERTY…   
  
***  
  
Things weren't working out with Smyth, he supposed. He was now sitting in the office of Doctor Reginald Dubbert Duval, a British Caucasian with amazing hair and a stunning smile. Watching him grin across the desk, charming and dapper, it was extremely annoying… almost repulsive…  
  
He had to get out. He had to get back to work. Damage control, please, damage control! What did people think? What did people KNOW? These days his thoughts were possessed by spin doctors… who to call when he got out… who was good enough to save him?  
  
Arthur scarcely listened, until it came up that Caledon Smyth wasn't out of his life. No, no… this session was extracurricular. Duval was the dream doctor. He saw the other doctors' patients once and while, whenever they needed dream therapy, or whatever it was officially called. The staff worked as a team for the most part. Most specialized in something.  
  
After a week with Cal, he'd been referred here. His dreams were too much. Overpowering. Smyth felt the key was locked within them. No ground could be won (or covered, frankly) as long as the dreams tore his soul. How melodramatic. How- PLEASE. Dreams meant absolutely nothing. They were just a combination of everything you'd ever experienced in your life. He'd read a book all about a person's dream mind. Your subconscious recalled every word, every thought, every feeling - every damn BEE STING, every cool breeze… Dreams were just a combination of that kind of stuff. Besides, he never remembered them anyway. (Though a person definitely had three or four every night.)   
  
Now Duval was yammering about how he felt dreams were God's method of communication. Reeves heard bits and pieces as he looked out the window, the bar shadows lining his pale, sickly face. He was still too thin. Duval went on and on: "…people always wonder why God spoke to people in Biblical times and not now… well, sorry, ladies and gentlemen, God does speak. He speaks in the world around us. Nature, the crashing computer, a power failure, a storm - the weather… things controlled by chance, by fate… and above all, he speaks to us through DREAMS…"  
  
Quit and teach Sunday School, Father Dub…   
  
Man, the guy was theological today.   
  
But… religion was one of those subject… everyone felt differently about it… very differently…   
  
Arthur Reeves felt nothing at all.  
  
***  
  
They were in town. People always stared at him in town - he was so filthy, so bruised. He didn't like their looks. He didn't like coming to town. He didn't want to start school in September. Cuddles' little legs hurried ahead into the paved street. He was SO adorable. He waited, his little ears erect, but flopped over softly at the top… so cute… He waited in the street…  
  
He should be on a leash. It had always been a rule before. Back with his real parents. A leash in town. Unfortunately, as time dragged on… the memory of his parents and that miracle lifestyle dimmed, almost faded. Minutes turned to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to - NO - years would come someday. Years with THEM. With the people, with the rats, with the farm, with the stares, with the town… with miserable school. He was only four, yet he was embarrassed of his state. He'd known a better life. He knew clean, ritzy clothes. A real bed. He'd known LOVE. He'd known money and status. Now he was unloved, disgraced, shamed. He actually knew these feelings at four. He didn't want to go to school. He had flea bites from the rats. He was dirty. He was worried about his teeth, about his health… They provided no soap, no toothpaste, no brushes of any kind… no tissues… no toilet paper… no WATER… He could figure out the bathtub, but the rusty, filthy taps were so hard to turn… and the water was a sickening colour… it smelt bad too…   
  
A truck was coming along now, too fast. Much too fast!  
  
"Cuddles!" he called, warning. Cuddles tended to move when cars came.   
  
The dog WOULD have moved. He WOULD have heard then seen the truck. Yes, he would have been fine on his own. Unfortunately, Arthur's call distracted him. He looked at Arthur, listened to Arthur, instead of hearing and seeing the truck.  
  
Arthur distracted him at that crucial instant-  
  
The truck smashed Cuddles. Very sudden. Very hard and fast.   
  
He yelped LOUD… hurled through the air…   
  
Hitting the pavement thirty feet ahead, he was still alive.  
  
He was still alive, very shocked…  
  
"CUDDLES!" Arthur raced forward, absolutely panicked.   
  
The truck couldn't stop. The dog tried to move, but… The front wheels missed… the back-  
  
It ran over Cuddles. The truck ran over Cuddles.   
  
Falling to his knees, the black haired boy was crying, terrified.   
  
The driver kept on. A hit and run.  
  
Arthur cried. Just CRIED! He… he had to do something…  
  
Cuddles was still alive. Still. His little body was crushed through. The wheels had crushed his bottom half… his back legs… His tiny back legs, his lower half was dead, limp, useless…   
  
He would be alright. He just had to get off the road… before…  
  
Arthur tried to lift the dog. Blood came unexpectedly. He'd never seen Cuddles bleed… and now… it was flowing fast and furious… Blood!  
  
The Westie was very light. The boy always carried him. He had to save Cuddles. Cuddles was his life. The only thing that kept him sane. Cuddles gave him the will to live. All he had when he was afraid at night or afraid of the man… He loved Cuddles more than life itself!  
  
Cuddles, whimpering before, screeched in AGONY now when lifted…   
  
Lifting was bad. Lifting was bad. He left Cuddles there… he… he needed help… FAST! He screamed for the man… the woman… They didn't come. He knew they wouldn't come. They never came. He screamed for anyone. Anyone at all. Not a soul appeared. Just the wind. His cried echoed through the streets…   
  
Realizing he had to leave Cuddles to find help… he… NO, he couldn't leave Cuddles… Cuddles was whimpering, afraid… he had to… stay with him… He was scared if he left Cuddles…  
  
Crying more than ever, for the situation was growing more and more desperate, the boy knew he had to carry the dog to the vet's office. The vet who lived down his lane had an office just down the street. Only two farms existed between the man and town. The Cowboy and the Vet. The vet gave him dog food, cleaned and trimmed little Cuddles for free… to help him… He knew them… the people… the man and the woman… knew what they were like and wanted to help…  
  
Crying, he forced himself to be brave for Cuddles. He carried the dog, who shrieked at first, but then returned to whimpering when it adjusted…  
  
He'd take the quickest way… cut through the ally… go in the back…  
  
Cuddles was dead before he reached the door.   
  
***  
  
The pain was so sharp, so strong, so HORRIBLY indescribable…  
  
Cuddles…   
  
The knocking. The frightening knocking! It just wouldn't quit! It just wouldn't! It kept on and on! Knocking, KNOCKING… KNOCKING!!!   
  
Against the wall, he couldn't take a second more… the PAIN… between the inevitable doom outside his door… and the loss of Cuddles… he couldn't handle-  
  
He slid down the wall slowly, crying.   
  
Only now… the knocking was accompanied by words. In past dreams it had only been able to repeat a simple phrase again and again… NOW… it was able to speak as freely as he. It wasn't shouting, it was simply speaking. Speaking through the door, wanting him to open it. Open it now… menacing… horrible… just…   
  
He screeched, tears flowing. The PAIN! The STRESS! He shrieked again and again. Just shrieked bloody murder, crying through it - crying hard… the pain… Shriek after shirking…   
  
He'd finally broken down. Grasping his knees, he buried his face in them, shrieking, crying… his fit would soon run it's course and he would cry softly, rocking… crying…  
  
As he rocked, the wolf finally snapped - giving a good slam…  
  
"Fine, bitch! I'll HUFF and I'll PUFF…"   
  
He cried uncontrollably again… The pain… the PAIN…  
  
***  
  
He awoke, tears lining his hollow cheeks. His face was red and soaked. A very strange cry strangled out of his sore, feverish throat. He was scared. Very scared. He started to cry again. It still hurt. It hurt BAD.  
  
It had blown the house down.  
  
Cuddles was dead and the house was gone. He was still going to die.   
  
*** 


	6. Autumn’s Marquis de Costello

THE BEST MEDICINE   
Chapter Six: Autumn's Marquis de Costello   
  
***  
  
DISCLAIMER: All Batman concepts and characters in this story belong to Warner Brothers, coz I've used Batman: The Animated Series and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Bob Kane created the Dark Knight. The fairy tales are courtesy of lower class Europeans of the 18th century - that sounds nicer, yes.   
  
A/N: You'll never guess who FINALLY enters this story next chapter! Stay tuned! (If you wanna find out… please encourage me by reviewing. I really appreciate it, guys!) BTW, I've finally gotten a new keyboard. Yay! Man, when your shift and space bar don't work… it's crazy.   
  
***  
  
The woods were incredibly dark for a summer afternoon. Filled with shadows. European forests of the eighteenth century were dark and green. Not too dark though, just forebodingly so… and much too quiet. The natural sounds were somehow missing.   
  
Sighing, he trudged along. He expected a wolf. There was always a wolf. A dark wolf, leaning against a tree, would stop him and speak in that charming, charismatic voice… yes, he'd seen it all before… a thousand times over…  
  
Stumbling, he realized he was standing in a fire pit. A fire pit?   
  
Confused, the boy carried on… tired of the path, leaving the path. He wandered through the tree trunks… wandered until he came to a pleasant clearing. Sunny, birds singing. Finally - light, sounds. A cardinal. He stared blankly at the silent cardinal, having never seen one before. It was stunning - red and black, just inches from his… Reaching out, he startled the rare beauty away. It was gone. The experience over and forgotten as quickly as it had happened.   
  
Strange, mumbled singing. Glancing up and over the meadow, the boy spotted a quaint little homestead. It rested, overgrown, natural, on the far side of the clearing, part of the next tree line. Curious, he crept forth, attempting to conceal himself in the tall, golden grass. The singing… unintelligible, careless murmurs of an old woman…  
  
As he approached, he caught the back of someone or something brown on the cottage porch, hanging wash out to dry. He could just see through the grass - just - It was gone. They - AH. A strange woman stood over him, smiling. Her eyes were very sick. She could scarcely see, he figured. She spoke sweetly to him in a guttural foreign language, probably German. She was smiling though. Her teeth sickly too.  
  
She bid him to follow her inside. He cautiously left the grass. He felt such warmth flowing from the open door, the smells of delicious- He was hungry. Silently accepting, he followed the old woman inside. She limped largely. Her hair was white and just everywhere. She wore earthy tones, a large brown shawl hiding most of her hunched body. No chain… though she clearly needed one…  
  
Inside, before him, was a long table on which a large banquet waited. The arrangement was out of place, though - far too nice for the old, earthy cottage… old and earthy like the woman…  
  
He was not the only guest.   
  
At the table sat a shady young man, lost in dark thoughts. He stared deeply into the table, thinking, a shiny black pipe pressed against his face. Thinking. He was silent, expressionless - yet somehow sinister. Mysterious. As the boy stared with the intensity of the unknown, images flashed before his bright eyes. Children. Dancing, giggling… then… crying… screaming… darkness… cold-   
  
Arthur jerked his head away, afraid. He instantly moved on, eyes on a very well dressed fellow with a gray cat resting confidently in his lap. The well-groomed puss smirked with mouth and eyes. Green eyes. He tipped his hat pleasantly and returned to table talk. Hat? Talk? Yes, the cat spoke fluent Human and wore a small hat with plume. He was a very clever cat indeed. A little gentleman.   
  
Thoughtless, the boy reached out to touch the pet, to stroke his glossy, gray coat. It was warm- YOW! Hissing, the creature unexpectedly slashed at him with large, shiny black claws. It's snout and eyes scrunched the way he'd imagined only wolves could manage. Recoiling, he nearly fell. The puss settled back into his master's lap, pleased with himself. Repositioning his little hat, he rejoined the conversation.   
  
What were they speaking about? They all spoke guttural-  
  
At the far end of the large table sat a very strange fellow… almost as scary as the first man. A little older, with facial hair, he was blindfolded - the blindfold quite bloody. He held hair… lots and lots of lady's hair… Arthur stared, a little boy entranced by blood. Vertigo drifted through him casually. The man had fallen. The man had lost his eyes. Though his face was startling, the eyes of blood… the man with the pipe was still worse. Much worse.   
  
Noticing an empty place, he started for it. The haggardly woman lashed out unexpectedly. "That's not your place!"   
  
Bewildered, the boy assumed it hers. She set him straight, "No, no… it for someone unable to join us…"  
  
Wait a minute. Firstly, he could understand her now. She spoke English suddenly. Second, if the person wasn't coming, why couldn't they allow another to use the place? He dared not to ask questions though, the pus eyed hag was scary now. Smile gone. This was-  
  
He remembered.  
  
"I'm looking for a my dog. Have you seen my little dog? … Please?"  
  
A troll just stomped right on in. "Nah, but I've seen lots 'a goats."   
  
He was holding a bloody ram's head.  
  
"That's a sheep." corrected the French nobleman confidently.   
  
"Huh?"   
  
"A sheep." the fellow repeated. Though he spoke with the snobby, cliché British aristocratic accent… he was definitely French. This was somehow unspokenly understood. Of this, Arthur was certain.   
  
"BAH…" the troll was dismissive. "I got lotza goats…" he was pawing through a large bag. A bag with blood soaking through… just like the blindfold…  
  
"I had a goat." Arthur's voice trembled.  
  
"Really." the royal sounded uninterested. It wasn't a question.  
  
"What was his name, lad?" the blind fellow was gruff, but not unkind.   
  
"Goat."  
  
"Not very clever, is he?" the little cat asked carelessly.   
  
"Filthy, uneducated poverty. Typical. Simply typical." The royal again.  
  
"I don't want none today." the woman was rude, urging the troll out the door. He smelled bad and there wasn't a place for him at the table anyway. He just came to deliver animal parts. Goat heads and such.  
  
Once she'd argued him out, buying a pair of large, looping goat horns, Arthur was right behind her with a question:  
  
"Where's the wolf?"  
  
The empty place was for his wolf. No doubt. Another unspoken-  
  
"Haven't you heard?" the nobleman was irritated further. When the boy showed no sign of understanding, he carried on, snobby - "He's come down with something wretched. He's deathly ill."  
  
"Ignorant, simply ignorant." The little cat echoed tone, tail still swishing carelessly. Dangling carelessly.  
  
"And it's all your doing!" the hag startled Arthur, ushering him into the next room. He tried to resist, but it was futile. She shoved him forward, into the bars of a closed cage. His eyes met with those of two sickly, starving children. A filthy boy and filthy girl.  
  
He understood and panicked. Struggling and starting to scream, he was ignored by the little party in the next room. Eyes on his platter, the high and mighty Marquis said nothing. His clever cat smirked. The blindfolded fellow and the mysterious piper were as always, dark and thinking.   
  
The child was absolutely shrieking now. Struggling.  
  
Finally, the Marquis glanced up, gripping his fork. "Overpopulated, the lot of them… filthy, uneducated vermin. Too many useless mouths." He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself, not his table mates. "Yes, simply wretched existence anyway. Disgusting vermin. Breed like rabbits, spread like plague…"   
  
Arthur shrieked repeatedly, struggling as she dragged him to the oven. They wrestled, but he was destined to lose. He could feel the flames on his filthy flesh. The heat. He struggled, crying - Why wouldn't they help him? How could they ignore his suffering?! The sick eyed hag was going to cook him and eat him! She was going to cook him and eat him!   
  
***  
  
"One of these days someone's gonna smack him…" Domingo muttered over a steaming coffee, a headache forming behind her tired eyes. "I mean, come on, guys - he's been really extreme lately. Just yesterday morning he went nuclear on me…"  
  
Perrault Dubé, the quiet French-Canadian, sighed, saying nothing.  
  
Martinez, however, had to agree. "Acordado, sí… I mean, he must be going through some kind of spiritual enlightenment, er, you know what I mean, right? Anyway, he's hit some sort of breakthrough in his faith and he's letting it cross over into his work in a manner that's just-"  
  
"Oh, I dunno…" Jerome Chesler interrupted, dark hands up. "He-"  
  
"-is upsetting patients and coworkers alike. He's just… coming on too strong with it suddenly…" Domingo sighed, adding, "You know, not everyone is comfortable with it. It's not the only religion out there. Sometimes he's just too opinionated."   
  
"He is NOT." Chesler tried again. "He's extremely warm and open minded about the subject. And just what do you mean he lost it on you yesterday, girl? That guy's never lost it on ANYONE over ANYTHING in all his years here."  
  
"No, no - I just mean, he was all heavy duty, Jerry. WAY too strong. He's been making me uncomfortable. This fanatical, in your face religious thing… it's the sorta thing that… well… if he crosses the wrong person… he's gonna get his head kicked in. Religion is a seriously sensitive subject. One day a patient is just gonna-"   
  
"SHHH…" Martinez's eyes widened. He was coming.  
  
"Good morning, everyone!" Dub Duval was extremely chipper, his smile as charming and dapper as ever, his doctor robe freshly pressed.  
  
"DUVAL." Kenzy surprised them all. Passing behind the group, he'd paused, overhearing the end of the issue. "Your Bible banging is freaking the hell outta people. Knock it off."  
  
Oh dear.  
  
***  
  
"I thought freaking the HELL out of people was the very point." Doctor Duval was muttering as they walked. "I mean, REALLY-"  
  
"Dub, you're not a Bosch painting."   
  
"Not you too, Cal-"  
  
"Arthur. We can talk about religion later. Please. Now - Arthur."  
  
"Quite right. Sorry."  
  
"What the hell happened last night? My patient nearly died. Why?"  
  
"Well…" Dub hesitated. "If you want my professional hypothesis… all the extremely negative issues within him have been resurfacing through shattering dreams triggered by his recent trauma. The dreams last night were the worst yet. His sick system couldn't handle it. His heart nearly gave out."  
  
"He hasn't said a word all morning. Too weak?"  
  
"Weak and disturbed."  
  
Cal sighed, thinking, "What can you tell me about the dreams?"  
  
"Well, from what Perry can get out of him… fifty percent is his actual past… the rest is symbolism for the anguish of his past and present."   
  
"Anguish?" Cal rose an eyebrow. When his coworker shrugged he sighed, adding, "Symbolism?"  
  
"Fairy tales - wolves mostly. According to Perry… his mother was really into that sort of thing. Bedtime stories every single night. Too young to remember, yet totally subconsciously conditioned with them."  
  
"Why not? Worked in the 1700s…"   
  
"Ya, well, regardless, Perrault is our best bet with this guy. Our 'big city councilman' won't open up willingly… so subconscious is what we've got." After thinking, he added carefully. "Well, he'll tell me bits and pieces of what he actually remembers… but he slants it all because he's embarrassed. Besides, that's just it - he doesn't remember. Wakes up blank. OH - and another thing, why is it-"  
  
"Woah, woah, can we just organize our thoughts here? I should be taking notes."  
  
"Just listen - I checked his file. No contacts. No one's visited him."  
  
"Why were you in his file?" Cal rounded the bend, a little perturbed. "Anyway, ya - the guy's got no one. No emergency contacts. Hasn't requested we contact anyone. When I asked… ANYWAY, the point, Dub - He's a lone wolf."  
  
"Bad expression, all considered."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The SYMBOLISM."  
  
"You and Carl Jung… you just can't-"  
  
"I'll have you know, Cal, Jungian-"  
  
"Don't start. If it's not religion it's Jung. NOW, why do you care about my patient's personal-"  
  
"Just checking in. It's highly abnormal to have NO ONE. Even here. Anywho, Caledon, this morning… after Perry put him under, we put him back to sleep… though, believe me, he didn't want to. He's afraid to sleep after last night… and I don't blame him-"  
  
"Sleeping could kill him."  
  
"Exactly… but relax. He's under very close surveillance. We hooked him up to that new mind-image technology. You know, that stuff-"  
  
"That Bruce Wayne-therapy-Batman thing. Ya, I know. I heard we've got it now. Does it actually work?"  
  
"Oh yes. Yes. He had a long, complicated dream this morning."  
  
"And you've got it on VHS?"   
  
"And DVD… kidding - well, sort of… that technology's coming next summer, but frankly, I don't see the point."  
  
"Scene selection?  
  
"Whatever." Dub unlocked and allowed Cal through a door. "After you."  
  
"So…"  
  
"Right here. Somebody screwed up downstairs again… so it's in black and white… but volume, visual… you've got everything you truly need. I just feel color's all part of the symbolism-"  
  
"You've seen it?"  
  
"Four times… and I'm still picking up stuff… It's deep… and if it relates to his personal past… we'll, frankly Cal, we don't have permission to-"  
  
"I know, I know. He wants the dreams to stop. Dream hypnosis only."  
  
"If he ever found out some of the stuff I have to ask in dream therapy, he might not allow it either. LORD, he's hard to work with…"  
  
***  
  
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend…" a scraggily man spoke mystically.  
  
"Thanks, Crazy Phil." Edward Nygma sighed, sounding tired.   
  
"I destroy my enemy… when I make him my friend…"  
  
"Obvious enough theme today." Harvey Dent changed the channel, landing on the morning news. He and Nygma were separated by a mysterious fellow known only to his contemporaries as The Philosopher. This title, over time, slipped to Crazy Phil.   
  
"And in other news… Batman-"  
  
Click. A children's program. They stuck with the children's program.  
  
"You aren't learning much… if your mouth is moving…"  
  
"Thank you, Phil." Harvey was unexpectedly annoyed. "However, the enemy wisdom would actually have been in context had you applied it at this time - but, Heaven forbid we should do actually give advice corresponding to the situation."  
  
Internally, Edward laughed. Outside, he was blunt, "Here, here."   
  
"It is far more impressive when others discover your good qualities without your help." Was the other's blank, majestic response, having never before said anything to anyone within the walls that WASN'T wisdom.  
  
"That one's for you, Ed."   
  
"So I'm a bit of a megalomaniac…" Edward shrugged.  
  
"Good judgment comes from bad experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment…"  
  
Harvey wished there were FOUR channels. "I've lost the theme already."  
  
"So has he." Ed was blunt, Riddlerish.   
  
"Never test the depth of the water with both feet…"  
  
"You know… they shouldn't let this guy out. He shouldn't be watching TV… privileges come with progress-"  
  
Ed interrupted, "He's been here longer than anyone and with absolutely no change. They figure him harmless. Someday I'll be like that."  
  
"Then you'll shoot your way out, unexpected, right?"   
  
Edward was casual, "No, no… I'll just be old… and crazy…"  
  
"Oh."   
  
"Life's a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved."  
  
Harvey blinked, "Hey! You stole that from Einstein!"  
  
"And a few bits back was Lincoln. What? You believed in this guy?"   
  
***  
  
Fugate's session ended, guards escorting the middle aged man away. Shouting over his shoulder, he struggled against them, insisting, "I'm serious, Doc - we were a car and a light bulb away from being Amish!"  
  
"Mmmm… Amish bread…" Perrault Dubé smiled, leaning against the door frame. "Don't worry, Temple, we'll pick up here tomorrow."  
  
"Amish, I tell you, AMISH!"   
  
"Night, Temple."  
  
"Dubé!" snapped a gruff voice, chomping a cigar. Perry, startled, turned to see Kenzy. The older man, lightly striped sleeves eternally rolled to his elbows, had his dark gray eyebrows down in a way that meant he was ticked. Very ticked. "Let's chat…"  
  
***  
  
Pamela Isley and Harley Quinzel were casually glancing through the history books they'd randomly pulled off the reading cart. A rickety cart came around regularly offering books to prisoners, it rested in the recreation room when it wasn't making its aimless rounds. Together the girls sat in the reading corner, quietly flipping.  
  
"Hey…" Harley, an adorable blonde, stretched the word out, turning the book on another angle. "Beethoven was kinda cute!"  
  
"Napoleon wasn't bad either." Ivy was blunt, not looking up.  
  
"But not THIS cute…" Harley insisted, putting the book before her friend's face. A few very good sketches of young Beethoven.   
  
"Wow! He really was-"  
  
"Ladies." Jervis Tech entered, escorted by guards.   
  
"Hatter." They were both blunt, not looking up.  
  
He took a seat at the card table and started setting up a game of solitaire. "Enjoying your history, girls?"  
  
"More than you know…" Harley giggled, giving Ivy a look.  
  
Ivy ignored this, grateful her friend hadn't nudged her. Therapy had broken the harlequin of the incredibly annoying habit months earlier. Initially, the girl had constantly nudged hard and obvious along with such giggling expressions. It had often gotten them into trouble and had just been downright painful.   
  
"History's a wonderful thing." Hatter spoke casually, pleasantly, starting his game. It was odd. He usually didn't speak to them. Good mood? "I always fancied European history… and many do. Christopher Columbus, Henry the 8th, Napoleon Bona-"  
  
"He's a cutie!" Harley burst out suddenly, surprising the gentleman.  
  
"Um… alright…" he came across confused, ruffled.   
  
***  
  
RING-RING! RING-RING!  
  
Snatching the phone instantly, a blonde young man answered, "Hello?"  
  
"Vespucci residence?"  
  
"You bet…" he smiled cheerfully. "What can I do for ya, bud?"  
  
"I'm Jeff from Waxen's Chimney Cleaning Services. Apparently you called two weeks ago requesting our service. Is this so?"  
  
"Um… I don't know anything about that…" The fair faced boy was confused, unsure. Had Sunny called? Did Sunny know-  
  
"Oh, alright then. Thanks." The caller killed things instantly.   
  
Um-"  
  
"Bye…" and then distantly as the phone went down. "Hm, cross them off the list…" The sound of a pen scratching could just be made out.  
  
Jericho Vespucci listened to dial tone, eyes concerned.  
  
Suddenly, most unexpectedly, the lighting psychologically changed and he hung up the Fisher Price play phone. He was sitting on the floor. Turning to his doctor, who sat in a nearby chair, he concluded, "And that's how it happened."  
  
"And that's what's on your mind this morning?"  
  
"Ya… it still bugs me to this day."   
  
"Why?"  
  
"I wasn't suppose to hear that!" surprised his doctor didn't automatically understand the issue, Jericho was always boisterous in voice and gesture. He was lovable, but extreme to the point of humor. "I mean, I actually heard the pen! He crossed us off. He-"  
  
"And this is a problem?"  
  
"Well… I wasn't suppose to hear…" Jericho trailed off, calming. Extremely attractive, the twenty-something was always unintentionally amusing. "I mean… even the pen thing… I mean, how does that sorta thing happen? How long does it take to hang up a phone? And if you're gonna talk to yourself about someone, shouldn't you wait until they're gone?"  
  
"And reenacting the scenario brings some closure?"  
  
"Oh, there'll never be closure, Doc." He spoke so simply.  
  
"I see."  
  
"He was talking to himself, Doc, about ME… and I was still there."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Unless he was running a toy car across his table… he crossed us off. I mean, just listen-" Jericho ran a small toy car across the carpet. It made a zipping noise. "Well, that's not quite right, but you get the idea…"  
  
"Of course."  
  
***  
  
The beauty of Autumn. The long lane was lined with red and orange. Just beautiful. Sure, each season was lovely in its way - the lush, damp green of spring with flowers and fog… the golden warmth of summer, those endless days of wandering the gold… the perfect white coat of winter, the shimmering frost, sparkling ice - yes, they were all quite lovely… but Fall was truly something else.  
  
Though it was a little nippy for his liking, the beauty was matchless, simply untouchable. He'd seen boys his age with cameras. They wasted pictures on silly, often sickeningly boyish, things. If he had a camera… he would stand at one end of the lane and take the world's most beautiful picture. He would capture all the seasons, frozen forever. He'd remember the lane forever, immortalized on film. The lane was his escape. His comfort.  
  
Walking down it, trying to focus on the beauty and not the cold, the dark haired youth stopped suddenly, frozen like film. From nowhere it had appeared, as orange as the leaves. A very young fox. Not a cub - his teacher had corrected him many times, they sadly weren't pups, though they ought to be. They were called cubs. No, this wasn't a cub or a pup. Just very young. A miniature fox. A wet fox.   
  
They stood, gazes locked, for a very long time. So long, the cold began to bother the boy again as they stood, entranced. He didn't want the amazing moment to end, at the same time, he was cold and wanted to get on. Life was like that sometimes. The young fox stood, unafraid, observing him. He stepped forward and it appeared cautious. A second step and it started to casually walk away, down the edge of the lane. He followed. Before long the fox offhandedly hopped from the trail, into the trees. He followed still, but it was gone. Somehow vanished.   
  
It hadn't been afraid, though.   
  
***  
  
"I can't BELIEVE Kenzy slammed down on Perry like that. By tightening stuff up around hypnosis… LORD… how will we reach half our patients? It's the most powerful tool we have these days!" Doctor Wendy Westridge was shaking the staff memo. Sam Spinelli could actually hear the paper.  
  
"Man, I guess he feels it's too Twilight Zone… Did'ya ever see that show Perry tapes, that Canadian show about hypnosis shrinks like him… what was it called?"  
  
"Psi Factor: Chronicles of the- Wait, Slick, come on - FOCUS. Kenzy has seriously limited out best weapon. That therapy allows us to uncover things our patients have forgotten, things that happened when they were in infancy - they can't lie when under - it's the very best- EERRRRRR… Why would he-"  
  
"I think he's pissed at Dub over typing up hypnosis and the new visual technology for dreams. He's been tying 'em up for weeks. Dreams, dreams, dreams. And you KNOW how the big guy feels about dream therapy…" He trailed off before adding, "Awesome new technology though."   
  
"I know. I watched tapes of a patient's first birthday party this morning - from HER very own eyes. It's remarkable. Now, not only do they describe it too us… we can actually see and hear it all. I can't believe he's taking it away-"  
  
"Well, he's called a staff meeting for tomorrow morning. Hiss then."  
  
***   
  
A boy, nearly ten, sat in the middle of a wheat field, thinking deeply. His dark hair was sweaty and unkempt, his skin and clothes dirty. He'd learned quickly. He'd learned to stay out of their way. He wasn't touched very often now. Barely given the beats ever, in fact. Not once this year. He'd learned quickly. He stayed outside all day, rain or shine. He only came in to scrounge for food and to sleep on the broken mattress in the attic. He didn't have a bedroom. He'd made a makeshift bed out of what he found up there. He had lots of interesting things in that old attic. He played there silently at night, unable to sleep. He rarely slept. His dark eyes were lined, softly bruising.   
  
Ya, they never noticed him. He lived wild, filthy and free. Nothing provided. He had decided early he would be hard. He would be a survivor. Watching the wind ripple through the wheat, he was expressionless. Classmates mistook it for coldness. Perhaps it was. He was hard. Appeared unfeeling. He had no friends. He talked to no one. He was the dirty boy who let his hygiene group down every morning. He was incredibly bright and unbeknownst to them, was leading the class by miles. He knew. His teacher and principal knew. No one else. Certainly not the couple.   
  
The couple. With age came wisdom and he'd learned their background and routine quickly without a word exchanged. The woman was a very distant relation. He didn't even know which side. She was all he'd had. All that kept him from an orphanage. He would have preferred an orphanage. No one asked him, though. They just met the woman at the train station. Didn't even check the conditions. That had been the first and last time she'd driven him anywhere. She'd picked him up that first day. The rusty ol' half ton. Disgusting old bucket of bolts. Rattling, miserable-  
  
Marty. He didn't know Marty's last name. Marty was alright. Always cheerful, smiling. Talked too much though. Marty was the only kid in town who even attempted to talk to him. He'd actually touched him once or twice. No one every touched him positively. Ever. It was totally foreign now, that concept. No affection, yet, Marty patted him on the back whenever he did something smashing. Well, silently solved a tricky math question, earning the class an early recess - that sort of thing. No one else said a word. They weren't grateful. He was just that mute. That dirty, cold, hard, unfeeling-  
  
Arthur suddenly glared hard, wanting to watch the field burn. The wretched farm burn. The town, the world… EVERYTHING… he wanted to watch it all burn… HE wanted to burn…  
  
***  
  
"Arthur… what are you thinking about?" Caledon Smyth asked gently. He was sitting at his patient's bedside. Arthur was back in the little room. His condition had slipped back. Not quite a relapse, only a little laughter now and then - still… his life dangled carelessly…   
  
"Arthur…" Cal tried again.  
  
Reeves turned his face away.   
  
Sighing, Cal said nothing more. Silence and time were sometimes the only cure. Especially for the hard, unfeeling type.   
  
***  
  
Sam "Slick" Spinelli had a terrible habit of smelling his food before eating it. He was the type to use a toothpick at the table before others too. Cal was often distracted and disgusted-  
  
"You know, Caledon…" Dub spoke suddenly. "Reeve's thoughts are far too advanced for a four year old. I'm positive his adult mind, his hindsight, is mixing with his child mind. Some of his thoughts… their just… beyond any child, let alone a very small child."  
  
"You said yourself, Reg, he was bright for his age. Mature. He-"  
  
"Regardless, children don't truly comprehend death until seven."  
  
"He never directly refers to their deaths. Not once. It's all so vague. That's the thing with being four. Anyway, we have no idea HOW he understood it because the information's not there… and that's just it, Dub - it's probably not there because he really didn't understand."  
  
"Vague. That's the thing with dreams too, Cal."  
  
"I suppose…" He thought a moment before adding, "You're right though. His thoughts are very adult sometimes. There's definitely the vague element of childhood… but there's adult stuff there too. It's like the two minds have crossed. His adult take on what happened… mixed with the take of the time."  
  
"Precisely… Now… Did you note the wolf was dying in that last dream? They said he was deathly ill. That means Arthur's winning the power struggle. He's finally-"  
  
"It's the medication. Not the antitoxin from Costa Rica… those pills you prescribed after the attack - for pleasant dreams. They're killing it. We're winning."  
  
Silence.  
  
Cal continued, "It was interesting to go through those fairy tale characters. I only recognized the troll from the Goat-Bridge thing and the hag from Hanzel and Gretel - the others were unclear."  
  
"What's this?" Sam was listening now.  
  
"Well, Reeves dreamed of fairy tale characters this morning…" Cal explained. "I had trouble identifying them based on what the dream provided, but Dub, he was amazing."   
  
Duval was modest. "Puss and Boot, The Pied Piper of Hamlin and Rapunzel."  
  
"That Rapunzel one… wow…" Cal was impressed.  
  
"Well, the witch let go of the hair, sending the prince down into the patch of thorns where his eyes were gouged from their sock-"  
  
"THANK YOU." Slick spoke quickly and cheerfully, rising with his tray.   
  
The pair exchanged a look…  
  
"More coffee?"   
  
"Please."  
  
***  
  
The rain trickled against the window, softly. Daddy had taken his medicine and was sleeping in the bedroom. The upstairs' hall floor was dusty. Mother rarely cleaned anymore. Only the rain kept him here.   
  
Edward and Katie were playing cards on the floor, quietly. Whenever he couldn't play with Costello - if they weren't home, if it rained - he played with Kate. She was a decent sister, he supposed. Bossy sometimes, but alright nevertheless.   
  
She was cheating now. She always cheated. He suspected she made up the rules as she went along… her brown-red eyes concentrating as she made her next move. She took ages to think. Ages. He flashed cards like lightening, he thought like lightening… his thoughts literally flashed…  
  
He was smarter than her. He was smarter than everyone.  
  
***  
  
Running… he was running…   
  
The man sometimes lost it on him…   
  
When that happened… he ran like lightening, like wind…  
  
He'd burst from the house, jump the porch, cross the dying lawn and fly down the long dirt lane… He'd learned to be fast. The fastest boy in school. The fastest boy in town. He'd learned through terror.   
  
The man always chased, close behind at first, then Arthur would truly fly - his stride, leg movement, would change on the lane, quicken - he'd flash down the dirt and the man would gradually give, screaming after him. Always screaming after him, threats, rage, hollering…   
  
He'd always escape and stay away a long time. Filthy and famished.   
  
***  
  
His thoughts shifted sharply… suddenly… he was running down a paved street in a very familiar neighborhood. Very familiar. Where-  
  
His house. The red brick house.   
  
The man was screaming behind… only it wasn't really him…   
  
Chasing… he's chasing me… HELP ME!!  
  
Arthur flew onto the white porch, hit the white door. This was his home. His original, real home. His real life. The truth. He had to get back to it somehow. Slamming the door, he screamed for help. It was coming… it was-  
  
Images of his suited father with perfectly slicked black hair, the businessman… the professional… surely his father would open the door and save him… surely…  
  
It would eat him! It had blown the other down, brick would be safe!  
  
Slamming at the door, he prayed they'd open the door and save him. He'd run from wood to brick, the monster close behind. Its hot breath of his on his shadow. Screaming after him. It would eat him… like a pig…  
  
The wolf was back.   
  
***  
  
"Doctor Smyth…" a young woman approached professionally with a folder. "I looked into Honorez. Just as you suspected."  
  
Caledon's heart sunk slightly. Damn. "Thank you."  
  
Flipping through the documents… it was all there.   
  
Edward often spoke of his childhood kindred spirit, Costello Honorez.   
  
Sighing, it was all there. The widow Honorez, nearly sixty now. Mexican-American. Lost her husband overseas thirty-forty years back, military man. Never remarried. Lived alone next to Nymga. No children.  
  
Damn.  
  
It had been hard enough to tell him Katie wasn't real. 


	7. Headlights Running Blind

THE BEST MEDICINE  
Chapter Seven: Headlights Running Blind   
  
***  
  
DISCLAIMER:   
  
Credit to Bob Kane, Warner Brothers, Meatloaf, history… fairytales…   
  
A/N:  
  
Symbolism… animals… ^_^   
  
Ya, I know it's vague, guys, but that's intentional. Just try and figure it out as you go… and wait until all is revealed. Ya know? It's just my crazy style… Thanks for reading, please review too. ^_^   
  
***  
  
And when the sun descended and the night arose  
I heard my father cursing everyone he knows  
He was dangerous and drunk and defeated And corroded by failure and envy and hate There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze  
No where to hide and no leaves on the trees,  
And my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again I know I still believe he never let me leave, I had to run away alone  
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years,  
Before my life became my own And though the nightmare should be over,  
Some of the terrors are still intact  
I hear that ugly, coarse, and violent voice,  
And then he grabs me from behind, and then he pulls me back… But it was long ago, and it was far away  
Oh God, it seems so very far,  
And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car… And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are   
  
- Meatloaf  
  
"Master Bruce?"   
  
***  
  
Wayne sat in bed, his eyes hard, thinking. Alfred watched, concerned, as the billionaire sipped his coffee - an invisible shadow over his face again, shading his eyes. His dark hair disheveled, his eyes lined with almost angry fatigue, he was lost in something deep and dark.   
  
"Master Bruce?" One last try and then leave him alone.  
  
That hard, dark stare. The sort that saw souls.   
  
As Pennyworth took the tray and turned to go, Bruce spoke, "I had a dream, Alfred. A strange dream. Unexpected." A fellow in Wayne's circumstances rarely slept well. Nightmares were frequent. He casually analyzed them, noting the symbolism, patterns and such. A subconscious attempt to understand himself better, perhaps. However, this dream had slammed from nowhere, destroying all convention - enough to blow a pirate from the water.   
  
"About your parents?"  
  
"No, no… nothing of the sort…" The handsome vigilante hesitated, not sure if he should explain, expression eternally dark and thinking. "…Do you remember Arthur Reeves?"  
  
Alfred was surprised. "…Why yes… of course."   
  
"I dreamed he was running from something, terrified… Blind in his flight, he ran into the street and was struck down by a bus. Killed instantly."  
  
***  
  
Jack Napier tapped the arms of his chair patiently as he waited for John Remington to actually say something. Hm… he'd been called John growing up. Jack came from John, just as Dick came from Richard and Jimmy from James.   
  
Eyes downcast, John was thinking. How did one deal with this character? Joker sat silent and smiling on the other side of the glass, watching him, waiting for his next move. Everything was so unspokenly strategic. That clownish mind seemed so simple, so silly - yet… it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Remington couldn't deal. No one could deal.  
  
Perhaps Batman- The odd, un-Johnish image of the Dark Knight taking his place, glancing over a clipboard and speaking casually with Napier struck him suddenly and he almost smiled. Catching himself out of character he concentrated hard on his typical expression. He always looked like he wanted to j-  
  
"You always look like you wanna jump of a bridge."   
  
John glanced up, a few strands of steel gray hair casually coming down.   
  
Napier was smiling.   
  
John's hard gray eyes studied his patient - perhaps THAT was it. Silence without eye contact, as though Jack preferred to take little shots unexpectedly. Fine, he'd play. Eyes back down, casual again. "So I'm told…"  
  
Silence for a very long time. Too long. Hm, his mistake. Again. There was just no pattern with Joker. No way to figure the guy out. Invisibly defeated, John glanced up again casually - idiot still smiling. Right. Glancing back down at his scribbles, pretending purpose, John wondered how they'd ever - Capital Punishment. In his youth he'd strongly opposed it, but… it seemed the only way to deal with these incurable, terrifyingly monstrous cases.   
  
Unexpectedly again, "You must be very unhappy."  
  
Glancing back up, there was Joker still smiling. The doctor couldn't explain the vibe, yet somehow he sensed this was some sort of very deep psychological game. This was something. Yet, it seemed entirely, absolutely… nothing. Just a bored criminal madman passing time…   
  
Down John's eyes went again, returning to his initial theory - his patient wouldn't speak eyes up. What was this? Pretending to write, he waited for another comment. Nothing. Then, the instant he decided nothing more would-  
  
"You married?"  
  
Wet gray hair met matching eyes, "Divorced." A lie.   
  
"There's a lot of old bachelors in this town…" Joker replied directly, casually.   
  
How did he do it? Jack Napier seemed to read minds…   
  
***  
  
Leaves rustled across the paved street, icy wind fluttering them along quickly and carelessly. It was too cold. Trudging along, ankles sore from hours of walking, Harvey was a pumpkin. A five year old pumpkin with aching feet. He was especially cute this year. Pumpkins were always cute. Humming as he waddled along, the little jack-o-lantern knew plenty of pumpkin songs. Pumpkins, pumpkins-  
  
AH! - It was cold. He was sore. He wanted candy now.  
  
Ouch. It had just sliced through him. The dark thoughts.   
  
A good boy, Harvey didn't want to disobey his mother, who was leading him along by the hand, speaking to him, though he wasn't listening. He didn't want to eat potentially dangerous treats. He knew he was to wait until they were checked and that they were to be rationed out to him. He knew this, he wanted to respect this… yet… a shadow seemed to fall over him. Part of him wanted to disobey.   
  
Walking along, the part was too strong. He couldn't think. He wasn't even in control. He just wanted to hum his pumpkins songs… he… OW! It hurt, it hurt… It was like he was shut out from his thoughts - almost. He wasn't in control, he felt dazed, in a dream.   
  
They reached the door. He was home.   
  
Relieved, they entered. The phone rang. She hurried to it, sounding tired as she answered. "Martha!" she was instantly revived. They began to chatter like birds.   
  
Now was his chance… she was oblivious to him now…  
  
Upstairs would be suspicious. Caught instantly. She expected that. She'd hear him on the stairs, know exactly what - living room. Silently slipping into the living room, he hide behind the couch and began devouring chocolate after chocolate.   
  
Eventually off the phone, she panicked and looked absolutely everywhere. When she found him, he'd devoured half the bag - chocolate everywhere.  
  
Thirty minutes later he was hospitalized - poisoned.   
  
***  
  
Harvey Dent finished the story feeling old, tired…   
  
"One of your neighbors wasn't so neighborly…" Jerome Chesler's voice.   
  
"Ya, a town of assholes."   
  
***   
  
"I was a clown every Hallowe'en!" Jack Napier beamed, flipping through a magazine. It was late October again already. Whether he was sincere, no one knew. No one ever knew. He sat with Eddie Nygma now, casually flipping. Together they sat on the recreation room couch, Ed quietly watching television.   
  
"Charming, Jack."  
  
HM… when Remington humored him he lost his temper… when Nygma humored him… it was amusing. It was fun. NO - it was odd. Out of all his fellow villains… Joker liked Riddler best. Not Riddler, no - Riddler was annoying. He liked Edward Nygma. Nygma was the perfect straight man. Witty, sarcastic - able to humor his antics brilliantly. Yes, Edward was his straight man. A foil for his personality.   
  
"What were you, Ed?"  
  
"Sorry, Jack - I don't recall much this time of year. Must be the cold." That tone. That amusing, sarcastic tone. This was Edward's way of avoiding personal. He didn't do personal well. At least… not with fellow criminals…   
  
Somehow Nygma could call him Jack. That was alright. That was allowed. They called one another by their real names. Everyone else - never. Everyone else was intimidated; they stayed professional… but Jack and Eddie were Jack and Eddie.   
  
"OOOOOO…" Joker was impressed with something in his magazine.  
  
"Why the melodrama? Another oil spill?" That tone, Jack loved it.   
  
"No, no - earthquake."  
  
"You're all heart, Jack."   
  
***  
  
Tiny Arthur waddled along through the snow. The cold was as bitter as his spinster teacher. Goat stayed in the barn these days. No bailer twine walks. No time outside at all. It was winter again. His new friend rarely played in the winter. Not Goat, the boy next door - his thoughts jumped about carelessly. Small child, careless, quick thoughts. A boy, a little older, lived with the Cowboy. He couldn't remember the boy's name. Regardless, his new playmate was much like Goat; they both preferred the golden summers. The boy, hair an incredible dark gray with matching eyes, loved breaking horses, riding wild and bareback through endless fields, playing rodeo, playing cattle rustler, rope, Wild West… target practice… He was a real cowboy… just like his boss… Ya, that's what he called the Cowboy… 'Boss'…   
  
Ya, the kid rarely played in winter. He'd never wanna play Peter and the Wolf, that was certain. Goat would sometimes play, though - when he wasn't being stubborn; temp… temper… temperamental. Yes, that was the word the Cowboy used. Temperamental. The goat could be very bad sometimes. Very bad. However, when Goat was good they played together. Sometimes they walked through the forest, the boy whistling the famous melody, goat following with the wonderful, overwhelmingly special presence only a goat could give.   
  
Arthur had learned the tune at school. It was beautiful winter days like today he wished that the Cowboy's boy would come out and play. He was a real cowboy. They played Wild West. They had real Wild West names too, only he couldn't remember them today - he only remembered them sometimes. They were always sheriffs. Admittedly, both knew the games would be better if one would be a baddie, only… neither could sink. Neither could manage that outlaw- He supposed he could slam the little window with snowballs again - tell the boy they'd visit the ol' Miller again. At six… snowballs, goats, play guns, crazy millers… it was all there was to life.   
  
It was treacherous to visit The Miller in winter, though. The Vet called him a hermit. Arthur couldn't remember the definition of said word, though it had been given countless times. Yes, the Miller was a crazy hermit. He lived too deep, too treacherous for winter. Besides, he was especially wild in winter. It was best to just steer clear. He could always aim the play gun. Practice. The Cowboy had made it for Christmas. Yes, another Christmas come and gone. His first Christmas away from- A sharp pang. Remembrance. He rarely thought of them now. They were gone. Nearly forgotten altogether. He couldn't even picture their faces. They were lost to him now. He couldn't explain how or why - he wouldn't understand for years. His entire knowledge of the subject came down to one simple statement: They were gone and never coming back.   
  
Still and silent, he shook himself back to carefree fun. No more dark thoughts. Yes, the Vet called them 'dark thoughts'… that definition was lost too. Dark thoughts. Stumbling onward, he forced himself to take up his humming and whistling again, imagining the lovely flute. It echoed through the snowy forest, bouncing off the sparkling snow. The day was cold, but bright and sunny all the same. He was dressed warmly, wanting only for a hat. Peter had a hat. Peter was a wonderful name. He'd named a kitten Peter, but the man found that litter… and well…   
  
He tripped. Landing face first in snow, he was stunned, then confused. Flipping onto his knees, the boy began to dig… revealing an old stone fire pit. A fire pit in the forest… Rumplestiltskin! He could play Rumplestiltskin. Maybe the boy would play. The boy worked on the ranch. He was a cowboy. Yes, maybe he would play. He liked the boy. His presence was enough to make Arthur talk. Well, just give short answers when asked, but it was-  
  
Snarling. Startled, he turned…   
  
***  
  
A little Russian boy dressed warmly with a little cap skipped along with a toy gun, whistling merrily. A little bird crisscrossed above his fair head, providing a pleasant counter melody.   
  
Bloody and unconscious in the snow, Arthur dreamed of Peter.   
  
***  
  
Waking up very, very sharply Arthur cried out in pain, grasping his scar. Lying in the darkness, hand over his firm abs, Reeves felt the screeching slashes of childhood. Multiple slashes, yet only one scar remained. A permanent reminder of his childhood days in the woods. His forest lifestyle.   
  
Lord, it hurt. A dream had brought it back hard.   
  
Running his fingers along the scar, he remembered…  
  
A wolverine.   
  
His presence had unknowingly provoked a wolverine, the most temperamental of all God's creatures. Goats were a laugh compared to these half wolf, half bear - well, whatever the hell they were. They were horrible. He'd been mauled and left for dead. Wolverines were like fishers in that sense - they often attacked without provocation.   
  
Yet, the attack didn't stop his forest ways. Not at all. He had to stay out there. He had to avoid that place. The man, the school, the town - he had to avoid it all. Plus, where else would he find food and water? Winter was rough. Fortunately, he had a few kind neighbors to pull him through when it was particularly bad.   
  
Ya, Jake's father found him that day, took him to the hospital.   
  
The image of that bristling brown and black beast… the icy air coming from it… It looked part wolf, part bear, part hyena… It was all shades of middle to dark brown with some black… Visible fangs… The sound it made before it sprang - OH GRACIOUS - he shuddered at the memory. Such a horrible, horrible experience.   
  
Sadly, he would dream of it three more times that night.   
  
***  
  
"Do you think they'll let us have a Hallowe'en party?" Harley Quinn far too energetic for so early in the morning. She made Tech physically ill sometimes. Ill. Yes, that reminded him - where was Poison Ivy?  
  
"Do you think Scarecrow will bust out for Hallowe'en?"  
  
If he heard the word Hallowe'en one m-  
  
Out of the blue, unexpected - "Ivy's sick."   
  
Thought so. Her talk was flippant, like a child.   
  
"I'm worried about the poor gal…" the little blonde did sound on some level sincerely concerned, yet her facial expression - her tone - it always tainted everything she said with carelessly, childish… "It came on real sudden. They don't know what to think."  
  
"I'm sure she'll be alright, my dear."  
  
A long, thoughtful pause.  
  
Suddenly, "Do you think I'd make a good Alice?"  
  
Hatter smiled warmly, "Yes, my dear… you certainly would…"   
  
***  
  
The kittens were crying. Arthur had covered his ears, sliding down the wall. He didn't cry, though. He never cried these days. Hardened. He determined to be- They kittens were just screeching now. It was terrible. Splashing, screeching… They were dying.   
  
The barn was cold, smelly. Though he was crouching - cowering - in the next room, the man's silhouette cast large along the wall before him. Through shadow he could see everything… it was just so TERRIBLE…  
  
***  
  
"I'll be Happy Jack and you be Fast Freddy…"  
  
***  
  
Watching the magnificent paints canter about the paddock… he felt… alive. They were so gorgeous. Splattered with wild splashes of natural colour… associated with cowboys and Indians… these red-brown and white creatures were-  
  
He wanted one. Arthur wanted one more than anything else in the world.  
  
The farthest mare was pregnant… maybe… just maybe… his birthday was coming quick… maybe…  
  
***  
  
One Saturday a month… several who'd earned the privilege were allowed to play poker. Not co-ed, there was an hour girls and an hour guys. Tonight, several gentlemen were enjoying themselves greatly at Jericho Vespucci's expense.   
  
Jerry glanced up from his hand, his poker face comical. With all his sweet heart the young man was sincere… yet… he was unknowingly campy to the point Hatter could scarcely hold it in. He wanted to slam his hand down, laugh loudly and leave.   
  
Jericho had lost every hand of the night horribly, his bets too high and his strategy pathetic. Known to his peers as The Jerricky, Jericho had a faceless reputation at Arkham. Now, seeing the character in person - he was just a joke!   
  
Edward Nygma, always cautious, noted a sudden, but barely visible, change in the youth's eyes. Yes, something wasn't right suddenly… The last hand of the night… everyone was betting everything and - OH NO…  
  
"Full house." Temple Fugate smiled, cocky. Winner takes all, he began to reel everything in…  
  
With a careless flick of the wrist, Jericho's hand - "Royal flush."  
  
Everyone froze. The reputation was real. He'd played them like violins.   
  
A poker shark.  
  
Everyone groaned as Vespucci took it all - two candies and an eraser.   
  
***  
  
Birthday, birthday, birthday…   
  
Old enough to know the Cowboy as the Rancher now, as everyone else did, Arthur raced through the fields, practically flying. Presents were foreign to him and they knew this, Jake and the Rancher knew this. Rancher had promised something extra special in compensation for all his unhappiness, well - he'd implied such. Jake had also hinted at something major. Something big. Something beyond birthday.   
  
He actually let his excitement shine through. The child actually let the expression form on his typically expressionless face. His cold, hard, childhoodless face.   
  
Skimming quickly across the green grass, he met the Rancher at one of the many white fences near the homestead. They Rancher tipped his hat, "Happy Birthday, Artie. I've got something for ya…"  
  
Arthur followed him towards the paddock, heart thundering in his-  
  
"Now, Arthur, an animal is enormous responsibility…" the Rancher was speaking, but he wasn't listening.   
  
A paint! A paint! A paint!  
  
It was a goat. A baby billy goat.  
  
His heart bottomed out, his shock and disappointment shattering.   
  
***  
  
Arthur Reeves stared expressionlessly out his room window, an adult in a wheel chair, thinking deeply about his past… but saying nothing aloud. Everything was coming back to him here. All he had was reflection now. The dreams weren't helping… His mind wandered from subject to subject and back again, silently miserable and reflecting - frozen expression. Cold, hard. He'd always loved the leaves. Especially the orange and red. He was thinking of Goat… whatever happened to that stupid thing?  
  
A childhood dream flashed back to him. A reoccurring dream he had regularly in fall, for fall was when Goat broke out and wandered the lane. Yes, he repeatedly dreamed the Billy found his way down the lane to the long, large highway - county road one - and nibbled the ditch grass with goatish indifference. That is, until an enormous red combine rolled along and startled the silly thing. He was there. He was trying to reach the goat, knowing from experience the combine would frighten it. Goat was never to wait for the bus with him, the end of the land was where the cars raced and Goat was afraid of cars… and school buses… transports… but above ALL… that red combine…   
  
He would race to reach the goat's bailer twine collar, a collar practically hidden within its coat. The combine would come and the idiot would panic. It would race down the deep ditch blindly, running stupidly into telephone poles and fence posts again and again. He would fly to meet it, to save it… he would signal desperately for the driver to stop.   
  
Stop. Don't kill my goat. Stupid dream, really.   
  
Yet, it was a panic dream all the same. He was panicked, the goat panicked… and when he met the goat and startled it further, to the edge of the highway, the combine driver panicked - panicked into collision. Goat ran blindly, killed instantly. Blood everywhere. A very familiar animal shriek.   
  
He didn't really remember Cuddles, so he failed to make the obvious connection.   
  
Instead, his mind turned to another dream. Another reoccurring dream of the fall - the fox dream. He saw the red fox on the lane rarely, but with it came dreams. Dreams of chilly, dark nights in frosty fields. Dreams of fox hunting… and not hunts with hounds and horses, no. Hunts with large spotlights resting over parked trucks… He was a fox, walking along casually. A light pierced the darkness and he froze, confused and curious. No fear. Foxes had no fear. He stared blankly, an animal caught in headlights. That's all it was - confusion, caution. Animals paused and shared gazes, they didn't run immediately… and this was their undoing.   
  
For staring at the light, there was no way to tell when the sound would hit him and put out the all lights forever, waking him up…   
  
"Arthur?" Caledon Smyth approached unexpectedly, tone gentle.   
  
Reeves acknowledged him, but said nothing, eyes down now.   
  
"City hall phoned."  
  
Arthur's dark eyes glanced up instantly, taking on a new edge. They seemed to shine with something new, something attractively fresh. Worry? Pain? Both. He was desperate, miserable, anxious - LORD.   
  
"They've asked for your resignation."  
  
A fox in headlights. This time, he couldn't wake up.   
  
*** 


	8. Time's Silent Scream

THE BEST MEDICINE   
Chapter Eight: Time's Silent Scream  
  
ATTENTION: Thank you very, very much to everyone who reviews and encourages. Each review matures me a little, honestly… and I can finally take criticism! ^_^ AND HEY, a very special thank you to The Phantom for such an excellent, detailed review. I really appreciated it! WOW - it moved me, really! A thousand times THANKS and hey, this chapter is dedicated to you since you seem to understand and appreciate this story so much! So - *drum roll* - this one's for The Phantom. ^_^   
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: Anything Batman is WB, DC and Bob Kane. There are many references to literature and fairy tales that obviously aren't original either. (Oh, did I neglect to mention I wrote The Three Little Pigs way back in - OK, SARCASM!) You guys know what's mine and what isn't. ^_^ Admittedly, though, there is a lot of original stuff here too. Heck of a lot of original characters, for example.  
  
A/N:   
  
Firstly, so sorry for taking forever with this. I promise to never give up on this story, though. I have SO MANY stories on the go and don't have loads of time for any of them. I will finish this, though - eventually. PROMISE.  
  
MAN, I have this other story I started years ago… and I get a review every single day from a harassing individual literally SHOUTING at me to finish it. Good God! I truly appreciate your patience, guys. Yikes.   
  
Anywho, this chapter is literally over twice the length of all previous chapters. Forgive the crazed writing style here. I occasionally use it when there's lots to cover, especially dialogue.   
  
Enjoy and please continue to review! I appreciate it! ^_^   
  
***  
  
"I'm Happy Jack and you're Fast Freddy!"  
  
***  
  
A adult take on Jake stood over a child, lying bloody and mauled on the snowy forest floor.   
  
"Jesus!"   
  
***  
  
The very last rays of reddish purple sun were slowly, painfully leaving the overcast sky, menacing clouds rolling over the horizon towards her. Standing in the center of a very gray wheat field, Pamela felt the warmth of day being harshly drained from her and all the world around with sickening suction… the endless world of gray - wheat stretching as far as the eye could-  
  
Choking! She was suddenly choking! Something had coiled sharply around her lovely throat and had probably been creeping up her from the very beginning; plotting with the first hints of gray, poised to spring like a deadly viper. Painful prickles dug into her windpipe like long, angry thorns - she struggled in vain. Slowly… her knees gave out…   
  
A serpent… or perhaps… thorns… something sinister within the wheat…  
  
***  
  
Reginald Dubbert Duval, dressed very casually in khakis and a long sleeved shirt was resting on his knees before a group of very small, adorably attentive children. He was holding up cute cartoons he'd quickly sketched the night before in bright markers. They were carefree and fun. Now, if only his story wasn't over their pretty heads…  
  
The beautiful laughter of children… nothing better for the soul…   
  
***  
  
"People, people!" Kenzy called order sharply, ready to explain himself. "This isn't ME. The board has serious issues with this new therapy. They feel - and rightly so I'm sorry to admit - that this new hypnosis stuff puts the patient in an extremely vulnerable position. It opens up all new forms of malpractice possibilities! God knows, a shrink could do ANYTHING on earth to a patient's defenseless, exposed mind! Besides, that kind of exposure is quite risky - I mean, I know what you're going through - believe it or not, I WAS THERE. Ok? I was there. I know you have to cure your patients and this seems so easy, the best way - but it's SO dangerous for everyone on so many levels."  
  
"Kenz-"   
  
"NOW - not another word. Call it fascism, dictatorship, boss's prerogative, WHATEVER - no discussion, people. End of story."  
  
"So - it's gone altogether?" Westridge was shocked.   
  
"Surely they can put safety measures-" Chesler started.  
  
"AT LEAST for the malpractice-" Smyth tried.  
  
Everyone was at a loss and all talking at once! Kenzy, temper building and pressure rising, started to speak when Duval lost himself professionally - "JIM! You said you were just LIMITING us, not-"  
  
"SILENCE!" their supervisor rose - the breaking point. "I said not another word! NO DISCUSSION."  
  
"You say a lot of things, Kenz."   
  
Slick. Stupid Slick.  
  
***  
  
Duval, off work on a crisp Sunday morning, was huddled amongst small children in the downstairs of his Anglican church. Smiling with a form of sincere, soulful happiness only innocent, impressionable children could bring, Dub Duval held his adorable drawings before them. Staring up with the blankness of early childhood, the group seemed spellbound.   
  
"A farmer was scattering seeds…"  
  
Sunday school. Dub really did teach Sunday School.   
  
"…some of the seeds landed on the path and weren't buried, doomed to be eaten by birds…"  
  
The crow was great, the black marker almost shiny slick.   
  
"…and some of the seeds landed in rocky soil. They grew for a while, sprouting some… but eventually… their roots hit rock and they dried up and died away… The sun scorched them dead."   
  
The children stared, absolutely absorbed. The sun, the rock, the briefly merry wheat…   
  
"…some of the seeds landed amongst thorns… and they grew very well for a time, very well indeed… unfortunately… the thorns grew too and they were forced to compete for survival. Sadly, the thorns always won - smothering the wheat, STRANGLING it… Though the wheat grew… no good ever came of it…"  
  
The gray thorns of marker wrapped around golden wheat…  
  
"The final seeds landed in good soil and grew. No birds, rocks or thorns bothered them and they were very prosperous and much good came of them."  
  
***  
  
Two little boys, probably around six or so, stood gripping a white picket fence, staring across a dark green lawn, up into the pure, white walls of the tiny, new Free Methodist church.   
  
"They say that's where God lives…" Marty whispered.   
  
Arthur blinked, "Who's God?"  
  
***  
  
"Reeves!"  
  
Steam rose, towels whipped… condensation everywhere… Sweat gone, he finally felt clean again…   
  
He wasn't an athlete. Well, not really. Back in Enojabo he'd played baseball furiously in the summers, but never again. Besides, that was a game of generations past. A dying national pastime. Regardless, it was not the sport for a suit. He would graduate and find himself a profession of suit. He'd left that dirty, sweaty sport behind him. It collected dust back in Enojabo. It had ALL been sweat and dirt there and now it all collected dust. Decidedly forgotten. Waiting for a sandy young Short Stop who would never return. Waiting for Peter… for Mowgli… for Fast Fred…   
  
As he aged and found his place in the world, in a profession - in a SUIT - it all died to him. It was too horrible for words. It made him literally GAG. Disgraceful. Unthinkable. YUCK. He was never to think of it again. Never. It made him physically ill. He would gag, hack - nearly choke himself dead.   
  
"Reeves!"  
  
Psychologically gagging… choking…   
  
Secondary school Arthur glanced up from his locker, towel around his waist, wet hair unkempt. Kennedy was coming over, massive brute that he was. Slapping Reeves on the back with a large, hard hand, "Saw you on the river this morning - you're not bad, man."   
  
Eyes fell on the scar. They all wanted to know about the scar. He wasn't stupid.   
  
***  
  
Zyelle Domingo was snarling under her breath in Cantonese as the elevator doors sealed several doctors in. Considering they were together and she was furious it was obvious to all outsiders a senior staff meeting had not gone well and Kenzy was to blame. Finally, aloud and in English - "Insubordination?"  
  
"Well, we ARE under contract." Wendy was blunt, cleaning her glasses.  
  
"Yes… we're like any other union. Under contract and given military justice." Duval was gloom, eyes down in sigh.   
  
"Guilty until proven innocent." Sam Spinelli whistled, agreeing.   
  
"YOU." Domingo turned suddenly, "YOU just HAD to push."  
  
Slick's lips parted in offended defense, but Dub's cheerful tones broke through an instant ahead - "SOOOO…" he stretched the syllable pleasantly, obvious in his attempt to change the subject. "Zyelle, you're surname - it's Spanish, did you know? It means Sunday." He was so obvious it was almost amusing.   
  
"Always the peacemaker." Chesler sighed quietly to Martinez, never making eye contact with problems. Just casually observing as he glanced at the silver walls, waiting for his stop.   
  
Zyelle kept coming. "You've always gotta open your-"  
  
Unexpectedly, Smyth shifted smoothly between the combantants: "Zy, I understand you're pursuing a new thesis - something Jungian, I believe?"  
  
Domingo blinked her almond eyes, temporarily taken aback. What-  
  
"Your proposal. Now what was it? Ah, yes - Jungian complexes and word association." he prompted casually, knowing he'd killed the fight. "You DO need all our signatures for approval, don't you? ALL of them?"  
  
OUCH. She understood.   
  
"I see you got my memo." The words came cold, matching her expression. The instant the doors opened she was gone, Duval in tow.   
  
"Nice, Cal." Wendy admitted, saying it all.   
  
The doors whisked behind the pair and Dub paused shaking his head, that is until he noticed Zyelle was instantly off in brisk stride - obviously furious, muttering. He caught "nerve" and "ultimatums" before realizing she had his files.  
  
Catching up and then matching her pace, "Wow… did Cal ever get your number, Zy! I-"  
  
"Here!" she shoved several folders into his chest before storming away. However, unexpectedly, she stopped and over her shoulder - "Oh and by the way… my husband's of Spanish descent." - before disappearing around the corner.  
  
Dub's mouth formed a silent "O" as he glanced down at the documents.   
  
***  
  
Martinez and Smyth watched Arthur Reeves silently through glass. His hand held a pen as his hollow eyes stared down at a dusty pad of provided paper. Unbeknownst to the patient, Smyth had sent several well worded letters to city council stating simply that he had not given Reeves the request for resignation, feeling his patient wasn't psychologically ready for such a crippling blow. He was buying Reeves time, sympathy and moreover, trying to keep up some image - some SHRED of dignity. Truth be told, he honestly pitied the arrogant fool.  
  
"It's been days… nearly a week, Cal."   
  
"I know. Kenzy and I have been fighting since Friday."   
  
"Why? Why are you-"  
  
"Natalia, please. You were put on Reeves only last week and frankly, you're only assisting. That doesn't make you an authority. His entire world revolves around that suit and tie. He's hanging on by a thread. We've got to be patient with-"  
  
"You've explained a dozen times. That's not even what I'm referring to, nor Kenzy. WHY are you lying to city hall?"  
  
"Arthur's got a lot of pride. It's his greatest friend and greatest enemy. It gives him drive, ambition - hell, the will to LIVE. At the same time, Lia… it destroys him. He's like an ancient Roman in that sense. Rather die than live in shame…"   
  
Silence.   
  
"I'm trying to protect him. Protect his pride. It's a delicate balance and I don't want him to die… or to even be forever psychologically-"   
  
"Cal, you can't stop this… and you can't put it off much longer. In fact, it makes us look bad."  
  
"How could my concern for my patient possibly reflect badly on an institution where patient comes first?"  
  
Martinez sighed, eyes down suddenly. "Caledon - I honestly admire your kindness here. It's good of you to protect what's left of Arthur's public image and to defend him to his former coworkers - but… a phony diagnosis? Cal, you're lying and you're throwing the political system out of whack. They need to move on as quickly as possible - for the good of the people."  
  
No response.   
  
"You've been lying all week and you'll continue to lie forever unless someone puts a foot down."  
  
"Kenzy DID. I've got twenty four hours to have the letter in the Mayor's hands. If not, I'm screwed."   
  
Beautiful Martinez sighed, thinking before she spoke. Finally, her tone hard, yet caring - "Cal, I know you pity him. You're emotionally involved. You won't admit it, but you're emotionally involved and its getting you into trouble. Reeves got himself into this mess and-"  
  
"Oh, save it." Cal walked out suddenly.   
  
***  
  
"…so… I just say the first word that pops into my head?"   
  
"That's right, Temple." Domingo smiled warmly, pad and paper ready.   
  
"Sounds easy enough. Never cared much for Carl Jung, though."  
  
Ignoring the dig, she started - "First word. Ready?"  
  
"Always." Temple Fugate answered pleasantly.   
  
"Pancake."   
  
"Time."  
  
"Tulip."  
  
"Time."  
  
"I see. Perhaps we should try phrases, complete thoughts…"  
  
"I'm game." Temple was indifferently cooperative.  
  
"Fascinating."  
  
"Two seconds. It took you two seconds to-"  
  
"Temple… I'm sensing a preoccupation…"   
  
"You've never worked with me before, have you?"   
  
***  
  
Later that day:  
  
"Yes, just let out whatever randomly comes to mind…"  
  
Jack Napier - "It's hardly random. I'm contemplating how incredibly stupid this is. Oops. Silly me. You wanted me to say something absolutely useless like DOG. Whatever was I thinking?"   
  
***  
  
And so on throughout the afternoon:  
  
The Philosopher - "… and the whirligig of time has his revenges…"  
  
Edward Nygma - flat, with melancholy lifelessness - "We stay in this miserable marriage because we're both too cowardly to be honest. I mean, we pretend we're fooling one another - though the pathetic truth is obvious even to complete strangers on the STREET. I would truly rather have you KILL ME than remain in this wretched relationship any longer… unfortunately, I know you're too stupid to actually pull it off…"   
  
Jack Napier - "My only preoccupation is messing with you mind, honey."   
  
Edward Nygma - "You know… my logic was all wrong there. I mean, why wouldn't HE just kill HER… No, no… brains or no, I've learned first hand you can't get away with anything anymore. STILL, why would he care if SHE didn't get away with it? He could always commit suicide, or HELL - the most painless, obvious approach - DIVORCE. Oh Lord, shut up - the entire thing lacks everything. It's just ridiculous…" Pause. "Hm? Oh no, no… This is all fictional, spontaneous depression. I never married."   
  
Jericho Vespucci - "Gray umbrella…"   
  
Harvey Dent - "Did I ever tell you I was poisoned as a child? … HEY, this IS relevant, damn it! It's what I'm thinking! Anyway, shut up and let me vent… I don't care if I talk about it every single session! I've just had a revelation and you're paid to hear it! … Looking back, I honestly suspect my mother herself. I mean… the life insurance. I was worth almost two million bucks…"  
  
Jervais Tech - "Mad as a hatter, mad as a march hare…"   
  
Jericho Vespucci - "Where do random thoughts come from anyway? I've never even SEEN a gray umbrella."  
  
Harvey Dent - "I'm serious, Doc. She'd buy this insurance every single year through the school and then constantly joke about how a fractured skull would make us millionaires… Hey, I'm serious! I just read this article-" Pause. "Ya… Doc Martinez lets me read parts of her paper…" Pause. "Um, ya… she reads the paper at work…"   
  
Jericho Vespucci - "Alright, alright… I admit… maybe this ONE TIME… but still… it could have been… HM… a very light mauve? HM… I suppose there aren't too many colours one could mistake with gray, are there?"  
  
Harvey Dent - "OK, serious now, Doc. The article said there have only been two reported cases of Halloween poisoning on Earth and they were both parents going for the insurance…" Pause. "…NO, I'm not making this up!"  
  
Harley Quinn - "When can I see Ivy?"  
  
Jack Napier - very bored - "Ah, yes, Carl Jung. Psyche broken into conscious and unconscious mind. Then conscious to ego and unconscious to personal unconscious and collective unconscious. Yes, yes - personal unconscious is the stuff of dreams. Dub Duval would specialize there. Collective unconscious would be archetypes - never much went for archetypes, frankly. Suppose Duval would specialize there too. Really into mythology. Almost knowledgeable, that guy."   
  
Edward Nygma - still miserably satirical - "So we'll just stare mindlessly at the television. It talks so we don't have to. We can sit together and yet be totally alone. God bless television. It keeps people who should have divorced ten years ago together, living a lie, living without really living. Heaven forbid we should worry about wasting the good years. The few there actually are before the youth wastes away-" Pause. "Still fictional." Pause. "Yes, extremely disheartening. Depressing. I'm aware." Large pause. "I'm extremely sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean to ruin you day… year… LIFE…"   
  
***  
  
Jack Napier and Edward Nygma sat silently on the sofa of the recreation room, carelessly flicking channels…   
  
"You know who I miss?" Jack predictably broke the silence.  
  
"Who, Jack?" Ed was flat, expressionless - humoring.   
  
"Whoever was here before me."  
  
"In the grand scheme of things or in this very room?"  
  
Jack didn't answer… silent again… until they were startled by the sound of locks and metal, the door opening. Their two guards escorting The Philosopher to the couch. He sat lifelessly between them, an air of ancient wisdom about him.  
  
The guards returned to their side of the glass and all was quiet.  
  
Suddenly and quite mystically, "…The enemy of my enemy is my friend…"  
  
Silence.  
  
Jack smiled for a moment, amused… then out of the blue… "Imagine if Crazy Phil was actually trying to communicate through his random quips?"  
  
Ed was deadpan, no reaction - "Oh, yes, Jack… how it keeps me up all hours of the night…"  
  
Jack made an unexpected, fake gesture to strike. Ed didn't flinch, he just added - his tone still blunt, sarcastic. "…tossing and turning… tossing and turning…"   
  
"Don't interrupt!!!" someone shrieked horribly down the hall.  
  
The three patients were indifferent, watching television.  
  
"You just wait, Eduardo…" Jack smirked. "Someday it'll come out there was a method to his madness."  
  
"Jack. He's memorized two dozen famous quotations-"  
  
"Even consider it may not a loop? That it's perhaps a subconscious pattern - a primitive attempt to communicate?"  
  
"Oh, yes, Jack…" Eddie was sarcastic on the surface, though annoyed beneath it as he actually HADN'T thought of that and should have. "OH YES. You've cracked the code. You matchless genius, you. Heaven forbid, I, the master of codes should ever able to unlock the secrets-"  
  
"Bleeding ego…" Jack interrupted indifferently. Reading his mind.   
  
Silence. A long, long silence…  
  
Then, Crazy Phil again - "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."  
  
Edward smacked his magazine on his knee, "What could it possibly mean, Jack? If you're so brilliant, hm? What-"  
  
"Well, if it were obvious - the proposition of an alliance of villains. But hell, it's never obvious, Edward. God only knows what he's trying to communicate. On most levels HE doesn't even know. I'd have to know him better than he knows himself. Literally."   
  
Crazy Phil, mystically - "He who lives by the sword dies by the sword…"  
  
"See? He's brilliant. It's clever and applies directly to our lifestyle. Edward, you're merely jealous of his wisdom, his gifted tongue, his-"  
  
"Ability to memorize. Oh yes, Jack - ravenously jealous." Sarcasm.  
  
"How dare you insult my new friend's authenticity, Edward!"  
  
"Oh, Jack, you're so theatrical-"  
  
"I mean, it's not like he stole it from Jesus. It's not like it's a direct quotation from the New Testament. It's not like he stole it straight from the very Gospel of the holy Christ!"   
  
Edward laughed aloud. "Jack, you really ARE clever." A sincere smile.   
  
It was all a game with Jack Napier. Always.   
  
***  
  
Man-cub Mowgli always led goats to his animal friends. Pre-Gotham, though also pre-baseball, Arthur was walking his little brown goat through woodland, pretending he was delivering to Kaa. Whenever he unearthed a large serpent, he respected it as though it were Kaa the Rock Python. Sadly, months earlier he'd come upon a sassy rattler - He hadn't thought of Kaa then… no. Terrified, everything told him to bolt.  
  
He was Mowgli, the little manling of India. He played amongst the wild animals of the jungle. Gave them goats. Since he appeared human, livestock walked with him merrily, suspecting nothing. The very image of trust. It said so in the story. Admittedly, they only read the first half, the Mowgli parts. He'd loved school only for the stories back in Enojado. Stories and later baseball. Marty was alright. Jake didn't go to school. He was lucky. He worked with Rancher.   
  
Sadly, as the years rolled on he learned himself more T then Mowgli. More self-serving and hated jackal than brave and loveable wild boy. Somewhere wires crossed. Somehow everything changed. Not suddenly. No… instantly.   
  
***  
  
"THIS is your complex crap? Word association indeed and Jung my ass! Give my Freud, thanks." Kenzy tossed Domingo's clipboard in the garbage without hesitation.  
  
Gasping, she started - "Kenzy!"  
  
Blunt. "Stop wasting my life!"  
  
Chomping his cigar, he seemed more news editor than supervisor.   
  
***  
  
He jogged, rowed - they knew that. Was nothing special, though. No REAL muscle. Othello and Dexter were eyeing the deep scar in Reeves' left side - it slashed deeply into his left side, scarcely reaching his left abs. Nasty. Inexplicable.   
  
Roderick dropped his duffle bag on the bench between them, muscles well toned, quickly messing his wet hair with his hand. He followed their line of sight, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my." He smirked.   
  
***  
  
Pamela Isley wasn't well. Her eyes bruised with sickness… her once beautiful face lined horribly…   
  
Doctors Smyth and Remington watched through her window gravely. She was nearing the end, they feared.   
  
"What the hell could it be, Cal?"  
  
"Something connected to her special immune system. One expert upstairs said he was shocked she'd gotten through childhood at all."  
  
"The same ass that called her a Freak of Nature?" John snorted, skeptically unimpressed.  
  
***  
  
Wheel chair at the window. Life in shambles. Yes, where had he seen THIS before? Oh right. Every single day and night for the past week. This was his existence now. A piece of paper resting in his lap…  
  
He'd started at least a dozen letters. He hated this. He hated this so much he was going to gag. Choke. DIE. The sensation was familiar. Déjà vu constantly teased, but he never let it take. Staring into the dying Autumn, his red leaves were all gone. Dead, bare trees remained. The first snow fall very near. Frost lined his window this morning.  
  
Something nagged at him… Death, he assumed. Ya, by the first snowfall he'd be dead. He couldn't foresee a life now. A future. He could remember Marty speaking of similar feelings decades back. As a sophomore in high school, just before Reeves left him forever, Marty had expressed himself without a future. He just couldn't see himself past high school! He had dreams, plans, oh absolutely - he just couldn't see himself there. Couldn't see anything happening. He couldn't image himself going post-secondary. He couldn't see himself moving out, getting a driver's license, getting a CAR, getting married - having KIDS. He could see nothing. Therefore, he was convinced he wasn't fated to live that long. He would obviously somehow cease to exist by nineteen. Considering Reeves had last seen Marty at fifteen, it was impossible to know if the theory had proven true. At the time he'd thought it insane. Unable to relate, as he had enormous, very clear goals to achieve.  
  
Now he could relate. By Jove, he could RELATE.   
  
The wind whistled and he tried to picture Marty as a man. An adult working somewhere with a family. He tried to age the boyish face. Tried to picture his children, kids of similar make. That was nothing - it was the face. He just COULD NOT age it. Not a single DAY. He couldn't. Marty was right. Some people have no future. Sometimes you know you're doomed.   
  
Arthur Reeves was doomed.  
  
***  
  
Jake was such an idiot. There were no lions in the jungle. Panthers, tigers and bears, certainly - but lions? HA. Lions lived in Africa! Jake was so stupid some days.  
  
He'd just left the moron at the breakfast table, starting across the yard and down the lane for the bus. After the business with the wolverine, people could no longer turn a blind eye. Something was finally to be done. Rancher had risen to speak on his behalf and the council interrupted mid-speech with a decision. When Arthur was released from hospital, he moved in with Rancher and Jake.  
  
Kicking stones along the path, the boy played the argument over in his head, mauling it like fresh meat. Jake was wrong, as usual. A simpleton beyond all proportion.   
  
The hard arrogance had started in Arthur early.   
  
***  
  
Jericho had drifted away again… mind lost in wild, western paints and Christmas Carols off key… suddenly, absolutely unpredictable, he snapped back to reality - literally. He jerked his blond head hard and fast, smashing the back of his skull against padding accidentally. Thank God for the padding… and thank God he was oblivious to it.  
  
Rubbing the back of his head, he tried to remember something…  
  
Drifting again, he began to aimlessly step about, slightly turning as he absently hummed. It was almost unintelligible, mumbled very lightly. "…girls in white dresses… sashes… snowflakes that stay… nose and eyelashes… silver white winters that melt… spring… these are a few… favourite things…   
  
***  
  
Edward Nygma stared blankly into the white wall of his cell. He'd been incredibly good this week… many weeks now consecutively, in fact. Perhaps he could publicly dine now. Well, as publicly as Arkum allowed. It was more like a prison cafeteria… but it was something. An advance. Another chance to prove himself and advance even further. He could do this - he could DO THIS.   
  
He saw green on the wall now. Green slopping about strangely. Things always appeared on that wall.   
  
Sighing, he closed his eyes, a headache forming. He was remembering an argument months earlier with Smyth about one of his deepest issues - winning. He had to win. Always. He had to beat everyone. He had to be the best. It had started early, playing games with Kate. He cheated regularly in school to feel superior. He even tried to outdo his teachers most days. He had to be the best criminal. He couldn't let Jack outwit him. He had to outsmart Batman. He had to win their little game. It was ALL about winning. Everything was winning!  
  
His head really hurt now. A pressure was building behind his eyes… building… Life was so terrible…   
  
The words from the stupid argument long past echoed from the wall. The wall of images. The wall of sounds.   
  
It hadn't really been a fight. He'd been the only one fighting. Smyth had been Smyth. Doctors weren't to fight with patients ever. Ed just hadn't liked what he was hearing. He'd been the only one fighting…  
  
The words echoed from the wall of pain… the wall of memory…  
  
***  
  
Arthur Reeves, a popular city councilman now, was gently applying what he considered his most handsome smile. Handsome. Ha. In a few years he'd learn. Flashing his pearls and leaning in as he spoke, he hoped to sweep the cute little bank teller off her feet.  
  
Yes. He was pathetic.  
  
Sophomore Arthur, packing his bags and never looking back, would NEVER have considered a bank teller. He would have never considered anyone without powerful connections and a large income. Dating was all part of it. All part of The Plan.   
  
Somewhere along his troubled path, subconsciously without a second thought, Reeves had unknowingly changed in this sense. Incredibly lonely without truly realizing, he'd changed. Starved for any form of feeling at all, he-  
  
AH!  
  
A rough, rugged man his size and ethnic background shoved Reeves aside - hard and thoughtless, forcing his way to the counter.   
  
"Hey!" Arthur started, seriously peeved. Always proud, so very proud - especially before and regarding women. However, no further sound came out. Silence slipped through his lips as he was interrupted by earth shattering words -  
  
"MONEY OUT OR YOUR DEAD!"  
  
He had a gun. The man was pointing a gun at her!  
  
***  
  
Miss. Crawford stood before the class with a book of foreign fairy tales, mostly of the forest animal variety. Scarcely a child was actually listening. Kyle was scratching silly words into his desk again… Miranda was whispering to Monica… Richard was making paper animals from scrap paper. He always did. His desk was beside the recycling bin. He'd once given Arthur a jumping frog… Crawford had a flapping crane on her desk. Rich had been skipped ahead a grade - "gifted" the teachers said. Other boys struggled with airplanes, while precious Ritchie did something adults called "origami".   
  
Marty was trying to get Reeves' attention. Arthur ignored them all. He was engrossed in the story, as always. The stories meant everything to him. His untamed imagination devoured them, envisioned them - currently, he was lost in his head, picturing it all.  
  
Toby, a decent dog, beaten and beaten and beaten day after day until he could bare it no longer, left to join his wild brethren… He went back to his roots… his ancestors… his past…   
  
Arthur could feel the kicks. He really, really could.   
  
Marty struck him with a larger ball of paper. Arthur glared. Kids were so stupid! He failed to realize his would-be friend wasn't trying to annoy him - the ball unwrapped into a large message about after class. Realizing Reeves was in one of his moods, Marty's smile faded and he knew the likes of Moby Dick was more important then he - again. Always. Always with the animal stories.  
  
Crawford read, her voice illustrating the misty forest… Toby's wild cousin tricking him… using him…   
  
"Let me in, Brother. Unlatch the gate."  
  
AH. That voice. That VOICE…  
  
Through the gate, invisible - came the voice.   
  
"Let me in, Brother. Unlatch the gate."  
  
Toby whimpering, crouched, ears down and tail tucked trembling between his legs as an enormous, terrifying shadow spread over him slowly, menacingly.   
  
It was all happening so SLOWLY - pressure, something had a snap - something -   
  
"NO, IT'S A TRICK!"  
  
Time stood still. Everyone froze, looking at him.  
  
Miss. Crawford cleared her throat, lowering the book a little, "UM, yes, Arthur - but, please, as much as I appreciate your attentive enthusiasm… try and contain yourself in future."   
  
Poor Toby. He'd just been trying to escape abuse for his roots…   
  
***  
  
How had this happened? HOW!?  
  
He was on the floor… leaning against the counter… staring at his shoes, though they were no longer his. The man was wearing them - expensive, Italian make. That wasn't the issue, though. He was afraid to die. He was going to die and he knew it. Separated from the others, he'd been hatefully singled out. He would be first.   
  
Cold marble floor… shiny black gun… cold marble-   
  
Click.  
  
A hostage, he couldn't breath. His captor was so close now, his breath very warm. His pale hand reaching under Reeves' jacket, the young politician's eyes wide with fright… Feeling around… feeling around… cell phone. OH. THANK GOD. He just pulled out the black cell phone.   
  
Eyes meeting again, Arthur understood. The number had been communicated several times now, therefore this was actually a relief.   
  
"We've got you surrounded, Malone!" Gordon called again.   
  
He was on the phone. The criminal was on the phone.   
  
Reeves was almost feverish - disoriented, terrified sweat, hair tousled wildly, flesh tinted red - the phone held to his ear suddenly. He understood, but he was going to faint… he was-  
  
***  
  
NO! It wasn't like that. He dreamed it often and always dreamed it wrong! LORD! He hadn't been feverish. That was a dream thing. He'd been warm and terrified, freaked - but hell, his memories - his dreams - over exaggerated the feeling every time.   
  
Correction:  
  
The phone to his ear, Reeves was drenched in terror sweat - yet too terrified to be anything but ALERT, not dazed with stupid fever. The phone loomed against the right side of his face, his hair a sweaty mess and his shoes truly gone.   
  
An introduction had been provided, but he refused to speak. Not a word. NEVER. The shame! He'd rather be shot dead than lose all dignity. He would not let Commissioner Gordon hear the wobbling whimper behind his voice. If he spoke, he'd cry. Gordon would never hear him cry. They wouldn't play his tearful begging again and again on the evening news. He'd die first. Extremely proud, Reeves couldn't and wouldn't provide-  
  
"Arthur?"   
  
He didn't answer. Never.   
  
"SPEAK!"   
  
Silence. This wasn't courage. This was pride so deeply ingrained, so subconsciously insane…  
  
"Arthur, please-" Gordon started.  
  
Reeves didn't hear the rest. He'd been struck again. It HURT…   
  
"SPEAK!"  
  
"Arthur-"  
  
CLICK.  
  
"Hey Jim…"  
  
Coward! Stupid, stupid coward! He hated himself for it and always would. He hated himself for every single syllable. He would never forgive himself. Thank God he didn't cry, though he cut it close. Could anyone tell? He was obviously frightened. He continued to speak - he couldn't remember what he said - but he'd managed to say something through his wet terror. He'd hear it over a dozen times on the evening news that night and to this day couldn't remember save the strongest of his weak words - "Hey Jim"…   
  
***  
  
Hiking through very thick, fall forest, Arthur was thinking. He rarely spent anytime in the forest these days - he was now going to leave it all behind. Though he wouldn't admit it, he would miss the wilds - the beauty of nature and all her inhabitants. The animals. Stories be damned - the animals were real. Nothing matched being startled by a large fox in the driveway or happening upon a deer. The instant pang of absolute terror was matchless. To see a little brownish black bear lumbering along… to accidentally startle a dozen birds… or to hear the wolves versus coyotes all through the darkness of night, their beautiful songs were honestly the stuff of souls.   
  
Lord of all, he'd miss this world. The animals. Yet, his destiny lay in the city. His future was amongst the suits just like his father. His real father. His ROOTS. It was the only way. He had to succeed. He had to be like his father. He'd promised himself since day one of the new ranch life - he would get out. He would escape… even if it meant leaving this beautiful wilderness forever.  
  
He failed to realize his soul was torn to shreds the day he took his last step amongst nature. His soul was torn to shreds… a wolf destroying lambs… black blood screeching from a beautiful, innocent mouth. Déjà vu - a dream. He would dream it again and again. Lambs, wolf, pasture - black blood… LORD… it hurt… he'd never realize how much it subconsciously shattered.  
  
Trekking along, he was surprised to hear faint yelping. Playfully wild little sounds. Curious, the dark haired boy crept towards the source…  
  
Coming to a ledge, he was startled to see several little gray babies tumbling about, wrestling. They were dark gray with black points and icy blue eyes. Priceless. He was so surprised his gasp caught in his throat. He stared in wide eyed silence, watching them tumble.   
  
What were they?  
  
Mere seconds passed and he realized them downy pups of some sort. Wolves perhaps? No, no. The answer was forming on the edge of his conscious - they sounded like f-  
  
A flash of red-orange came out from under the ledge.   
  
PANIC.  
  
Reeves was gone. Flying through the forest. He couldn't bare another animal attack and a mother was not to be provoked. Goodness-gracious-Christopher-Columbus, one did NOT mess with maternal instinct! He would surely be-  
  
AH!   
  
The forest was thick and down he went. He'd only escaped five feet - he heard an adult yelp. OH GOD-  
  
He attempted to stumble to his feet, but went down again, the forest floor lacking traction. Hurting his knees, he looked up, dark eyes a mixture of fear and pain. He looked up into the face of a second parent. Dad. It stared at him, its expression impossible to read.   
  
Adrenaline taking control, Reeves was gone in a flash, racing through the forest, not daring to look back. He'd fall again. He had to get out! Would they chase? No. He knew once you left an animal's personal space the conflict was over. They wouldn't-  
  
A very long, low, mournful cry…   
  
His ankles dug into dead leaves like brakes, screeching him to a frightened, frozen stop. Panting and not daring to look back, he knew that was no fox. That was…   
  
Treading upon crunchy leaves… breathing…   
  
Very slowly turning, the youth laid eyes upon his very first wolf… A timber wolf. It was too large to ever be believed… and very dark.   
  
***  
  
Waking, Arthur wasn't startled at all. He'd dozed off at the window again, pen in hand. Blinking, he played the end of his dream over in his head.   
  
No. That last part had never happened. He'd never, ever laid eyes on a wolf in all his life. Never.  
  
Closing his eyes, he saw a dark, foreboding sign under his eyelids…  
  
WELCOME TO ENOJADO - In God We Trust.   
  
His tiny, childhood voice echoed - "Who's God? … Who's God?… Who's-"  
  
Blinding pain. He closed his eyes and gripped the pen. He had to do this now. He had to-  
  
He had glanced over Hill's official resignation request several dozen times and only now did he notice. Sure, it was the typical, photocopied letter sent to all who failed… impersonal, cold and professional without any feeling - but now he noticed a personal addition. Tiny, at the bottom in fresh blue ink:  
  
There's just no other way. I'm sorry, Arthur. - Hamilton.  
  
Closing his eyes again, pain flooding… LORD, he hated all the medication - it made this so much worse then… AH!! He didn't want to! He would rather die! He didn't want to! He refused - he would NEVER-  
  
Memories drifted…   
  
"SPEAK!"   
  
Silence.  
  
"SPEAK!"  
  
Silence.  
  
CLICK.  
  
"Hey Jim… Hey Jim… Hey Jim… Hey-"  
  
The blue ink subconsciously flowed like blue tears… "I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sorry-"  
  
He added his own in black:  
  
Me too, Milt. Me too.   
  
***  
  
"I don't give a crap!" Kenzy pushed past Smyth forcefully.   
  
"Kenz-"  
  
"Shut up, Cal! I'm sick of this Millennium CRAP. In my day there were results!"  
  
"Kenzy, PLEASE-"  
  
"I'm gonna sit down with Reeves and not only will I break through all defenses and make him deal… I'll have that letter in twenty minutes."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Twenty minutes, I swear to God!" 


End file.
